Date: Wed, 09 Feb 2005 21:51:40 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seventh Desert - Chapter 21 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the twenty first 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 21 - The conniving of politicians

  Once suspicion raises her serpent-like head and emits her sissing hisses,
it is difficult to be comfortable and at ease. An invisible danger lurks in
the air, questions and half-truths slip in and out of darkness.
  The cause of my current malaise was an accidental meeting with Rashid
al-Akhri, eldest brother of my dear friend Tariq. For all his size and dark
bulk, Rashid is smooth to the outsider and stranger, but to my mind uncouth
to those who are within his circles of control. I had seen the pain he had
inflicted on slaves who were now mine. I had seen the terror in which he was
held by his own slaves. And if the pain he had inflicted on the two recently
acquired Russian slaves was anything to go by, his own slaves had every
reason to fear him.
  It was the second time that I had met him at the slave supermarket, as I
think of it -- the Pakistani Shariff Khan's emporium which sells everything
from protein and nutrient balanced slave biscuits to the latest in Japanese
thumbscrews.
  As usual one of the supermarket's PSAs -- personal shopping assistants -
was in hover mode just behind me. Rashid spotted me before I saw him.
   `Sir Jonathan, I was only thinking of you this morning. How are you?'
  Honey on the lips of a lion is best tasted with a long spoon.
  `Rashid, you look well and what brought me to mind, if I may ask?'
  `I thought you might be interested in buying a slave from me. If the slave
is not of interest to you, then I am almost sure he would be to your
neighbour Mr. Ahlson.'
  I was looking at Rashid in one of the aisles between stocks of indoor
garments for dining-room and kitchen slaves. What slave could he have of any
possible interest to me and to Gustav Ahlson? Gustav only bought Swedish
slaves. Did he have a Swedish slave of which we did not know?
  `Unfortunately,' Rashid continued, `the slave is damaged goods. However,
if you want him at a bargain price, he's yours for twelve thousand euro.'
  `What? Sight unseen? A one-legged blind mental imbecile? Twelve thousand,
Rashid? I think not.'
  There is something of the night about that man.
  `He lost some teeth', Rashid continued,  `when a camel kicked him and now
his face annoys me. I hear you have a dentist for your slaves. I am sure he
could be fixed up on the cheap. Ten thousand then, what do you say?'
  I said nothing, but just breathed deeply and exhaled my lack of interest
quite audibly through my nose. Rashid like so many Dahrans simply loved to
bargain. Bargaining for the sake of the bargain. Bargaining for the sake of
final sale. I let him hang on his last offer as I did not really know if I
was being sold a slave or a Trojan horse whose innards would be a spy on my
household.
  `Sir Jonathan, for you, a friend of our family, eight thousand, my lowest
offer.'
  I relented in my attitude and replied, `Rashid, send him to the Lemon
Palace tomorrow with his file and I shall have my cheque to you by return
post. We seem to need more and more slaves for the work on the farms and I'm
sure there is some back-breaking job he can do.'
  We said our goodbyes and I gave the matter no more thought.

  The following day was not a bank day for me, in that it was a day I now
normally stay at the Lemon Palace and look after my acres and slaves, in a
word, I look after my own business.  A case of happy the man whose wish and
care, a few paternal acres bound.  Though my acres were not paternal.
  It was just after lunch-time when a blue Transit slave delivery van drew
up in the courtyard. My Head of Household, Pete Downings went out and
proceeded to take delivery of a slave.

  Pete Downings pointed to the ground in front of the bottom step up to the
veranda, where I was sitting in the shade.
  `Kneel.'
  The order was in Arabic, the language of the afternoon in my Palaces,  and
the slave understood it and dropped to his knees on the hot stone of the
courtyard, his hands still cuffed together in front of him.
  Pete walked up and handed me the slave's file,   who was, surprise,
surprise,  indeed Swedish. As is our custom, it was in Arabic that Pete and
I continued our conversation as I read out bits of the slave's file.
  The slave, a Bo Bostrom, kneeling naked before us as new owners are
supposed to see their slaves for the first time, he was just under six feet
in height according to his folder, with dirty blond hair down to his
shoulders, looked as if he had not been washed in a month and even at the
top of the veranda, there was a smell coming up from him. A smell of camel.
  Looking further down the file, seeking the line for current deployment,
yes, there it was, `camel herder'!
  The slave was well-tanned and had clearly been out in the Dahran sun
without protection. Blond hair can be bleached in strong sun and I got the
impression that his had been blond underneath its dirt and grime. While the
slave was not looking up the steps at either Pete or myself, his eyes were
submissively downcast as if pride had been beaten out of him and the first
step of the veranda was the only height to which he would raise his vision.
  Even from my seat I could see where the slave's lower lip had been split --
a split of some three or four inches -- and had not healed properly. If
anything the split looked infected.
  I walked down the steps to the slave and the smell from him was almost
overpowering. I wondered was this Rashid's way of showing me disrespect, or
was it that he considered his field and outdoor slaves unworthy of being
washed on a regular basis. Walking round the slave, I pointed out to Pete
beside me the marks of extensive beatings, the last of which must not have
been too long ago as the welts were still raised from the mid-back down his
buttocks and thighs.
  It was all I could do to say `Stand up' in Arabic, as if any movement of
his body would give off a fresh effluvium of foul odours. I was right. It
did and even Pete recoiled at the smell of camel shit and urine -- strong at
the best of times -- which was coming off him.
  `Open your mouth.' At least, that much Arabic he understood as well. I had
no intention of touching him in his present state.
  This he did and it was clear that he was missing at least four upper teeth
and two lower ones and what remained looked as if they had not been brushed
in the three years he was supposedly in Dahra, if his file was correct and
files usually were.
  `Bend forward'.
  The slave bent forward. I took one look at the crack of his backside and
such was its dirt that there no way was I going to examine if he had been
used sexually.
  `Pete, have two slaves clean him up in the style of our Palace and then
have them bring him to the doctors. You had better warn the doctors of his
pending arrival and tell them I'll want to know at dinner-time what they can
do to repair some of the damage done here.'
   The slave was still bent forward and would have stayed that way until he
collapsed, unless Pete had given him the order to stand up straight again.
He was clearly a well-trained and fiercely disciplined slave through
multiple beatings.

  I had Ben Trant, my secretary, send a note up the Palace Road to the Aloe
Palace, which is Gustav Ahlson's home, that as soon as he arrived home I
wanted to see him. Gustav, unlike myself, still works a full Dahran week at
Deckhams and is usually home around five.
  It was quarter past five when he arrived at the Lemon Palace.
  `Early dinner or what, Jonathan?'
  `No, I thought you should see the file of this slave I have bought today,
though technically he is not mine as I have not sent off my cheque yet.'
  I handed Gustav the file. His immediate comments, almost questions, were:
`Swedish and here three years! What's going on, Jonathan? He is owned by
Rashid whom I would not trust to give me the time of day.'
  `Well, if you want him, Gustav, he's yours for eight thousand euro and
I'll put in a double transfer of ownership at the same time. I think,
however, that it would do either of us no harm to talk to him together. No
harm at all.'

  When Bo Bostrom was finally brought to us, if you did not look at his face
with its split lip, you could have been forgiven for thinking it was a
different slave. He had been thoroughly washed, his hair cut, some Aloe sap
had been put on his skin as I could see the sheen of it and the smell which
had emanated from him had disappeared. He had been given the first
application of our depilatory cream which had made his body hair disappear
and the hair on his head had been reduced to a blondish crew-cut.
  Sérgio, one of the medical staff slaves, had brought him over having just
completed his initial visit to the doctors. Sérgio made a full obéisance as
he had not seen me previously that day and was copied likewise quickly by
the slave. Sérgio reported that Dr. Thorson would be able to cast
replacements for the slave's missing front teeth, no problem, once Dr.
Fournier had finished operating on the split lip, which had to be first
cleared of its infection. The slave's eyesight was perfect according to Dr.
Cuesta. I dismissed Sérgio and watched his perfectly slim buns disappear
across the courtyard.
  `Kneel,' I said in Arabic.
  The slave knelt some three feet before me. His eyes seemed to be focused
on my knees or thereabouts.
  `Look at me.'
  The slave's eyes spoke volumes about him. He was submissive and afraid and
disoriented all in one. Whatever training he had been given, most likely
beatings to my mind,  seemed effective, as he did what he was ordered to do
and quickly so. But with the respect for authority, there was fear. Yes,
there was definitely fear. He was one scared slave.
  I looked at Gustav beside me who was still studying the slave.
  Gustav said something to the slave in Swedish, and a greater look of fear
was to be seen on the slave's face.
  A further phrase from Gustav and tears started to roll down the slave's
cheeks, as he whispered something back in that language. In all of this, the
slave had not taken his eyes off me.
  `Tell me about yourself,' I finally said to him again in Arabic.
  The slave seemed to have some difficulty speaking, first physically with
the very obvious split lip and secondly in Arabic. It was obviously a
language that he had not been accustomed to spekaing on a daily basis. His
replies continued to be whispered ones. I finally asked him if he spoke
English.
  `I speak some English, but only very simply, Master. I cannot speak much.'
  `Very good,' Gustav said. `We would like to ask you a few questions in
English, then.'
  Bo Bostrom, it turned out, had worked in the city of Göteborg. He had been
lifted one evening on his way home from work. He thought that someone had
drugged him. In Dahra, he had belonged only to one owner, Rashid al-Akhri.
He had worked in the stables. His missing front teeth were the result of a
recent accident: a kick from a skittish camel.
  `Where did you receive your initial training?' I asked.
  `At al-Mera, Master.'
  Gustav inquired: `Can you give us any details about your auction?'
  `I was never sold at an auction, Master. My former Master inspected me and
bought me.'
  Gustav and I looked at each other. No auction!
  `When was that?' Gustav pursued. `How many years ago? Can you tell us?'
  `Three years ago, Master.'
  `Are you sure?', Gustav persisted. `Perhaps you lost track of time? No
calendar to look at, no real winter?'
  `Yes Master, I am sure. Three years.'
  Something was extremely fishy here. I told the slave to get up and walk
into the centre of the courtyard some fifty or so paces away. He did so
immediately, standing `at display'.

  `Gustav, this slave is well-trained, respectful and scared. He has clearly
very low self-esteem. He knows that he is damaged goods. He follows protocol
faultlessly, obeys instantly, submits to everything he is ordered. You will
have noticed that he never speaks first, and is careful with his words and
movements. But I do not think that this slave is telling us the truth,' I
observed. `I have had my fair share of lying slaves lately and this one
could fit into the same category. He barely ever wanted to look at us. I
think there is something he wants to hide.'
  `What should we do?' he asked. `If Rashid got hold of a Swede only three
years ago, I need to know what is going on. The Embassy needs to know what
is going on. But Bo Bostrom is probably still so afraid of Rashid that we
will get nothing out of him.'
  `Unless,' I supplied, `we make it perfectly clear that he has nothing to
fear from Rashid al-Akhri and everything to fear from us.'
  `You want to threaten him?'
  `Do you have a better idea? Would you prefer to listen to his lies all
evening?'
  Gustav sighed.
  `Very well, Jonathan, if we must. These machinations of Rashid are too
serious. But please, don't frighten him out of his mind or he will just tell
us anything we wish to hear.'
  I clicked my fingers and indicated the previous spot on which the slave
had stood. He came running and knelt as previously. This time I came over to
stand directly above him.
  I said, `Display!'
  He jumped to his feet from his kneeling position hands behind his neck,
upper body rigid and feet apart.
  I reached out and took hold of his balls. He glanced up at me for a split
second, then dropped his eyes again.
  `Now listen very carefully. Your former Master has sold you. His commands
mean nothing any more. Whatever he ordered you to say or not say is
meaningless now. You are alone here, and you are with us. And we want you to
tell the truth.'
  Very slowly, I tightened my grip. He shivered, tensed, but did not move
out of position.
  `Do we have your attention?'
  `Yes, Master,' he breathed.
  `Good. We want to hear the entire account of your enslavement. And if we
are not satisfied, we will take you to the retraining room and beat the
truth out of you.'
  I released him and sat back down. When I did I could see the slave
trembling.
  `Stand `at rest' now,' I commanded.
  The Swede obeyed.
  Gustav looked uncomfortable, but then just turned to the slave and nodded.
  `Tell us what you know,' he said, `and this time the full and unadorned
truth.'

  A new tale emerged without further hesitation. Bo Bostrom had worked in
Göteborg as a prison officer. One morning, an inmate had been found lying
motionless in his cell. The prison doctor was called and the prisoner had
been pronounced dead. There was an empty drug sachet under the body. It was
on the face of it the usual death by overdose, which happened five or six
times a year among the general prison population.
  Bo Bostrom had encountered two colleagues later in the day, who were
wheeling the prisoner out, covered with a sheet. They had left their trolley
in the goods delivery area, where Bostrom was on duty in the office and the
two had stepped outside into the yard for a quiet smoke while the
undertakers arrived.
  On an impulse, because he had rather liked this prisoner, Bo Bostrom
walked out of the office and pulled back the sheet that was covering the
dead prisoner, revealing an immobile pasty white face. Bo Bostrom had walked
over for a last farewell and had touched the man's cheek. He was still warm
even though he had died some hours previously.
  `I felt the prisoner's neck for an artery. There was a very faint pulse.
The prisoner was not dead.'
  Convinced that he had stumbled across a new version of a very old escape
ploy, Bo Bostrom walked back into the office and called the Warden's office.
  The Warden said, he would advise the gate to let no one in or out, until
further notice and that he would also call the prison doctor and to sit
tight, until they both came down to the goods delivery area.
  `Then,' Bo Bostrom continued, `the Warden said that our doctor might be an
accessory to the escape plan, but if we played our cards well, confronting
him with what we knew, he might betray himself. When the doctor walked in
ahead of the Warden he had a folder in his hands. Both were smiling as if at
a private joke. The doctor walked up to me, still smiling and I felt a
syringe jammed into my flesh.'
  A slave trade from a Swedish prison? It was not possible, I thought. The
Swedish Ambassador had been present at the fateful EU proposal, but her
country had never sent me a single prisoner. Had they done so, I would have
offered to lend them to the Aloe Palace after their training, if Gustav had
wished to house them with the other Swedes.
  `Bo Bostrom,' I pursued our interrogation, `did you see this prisoner
again?'
  `Yes, Master. He was delivered with me to al-Mera. My former Master bought
us both.'
  `And at Rashid al-Akhri's palace?' Gustav asked. `Were there more Swedes
other than him?'
  Bo Bostrom shifted his gaze again under our attention.
  `I am not sure, Master.'
  `How can you not be sure? Are you trying to hide things from us again?'
  This slave did not know how much he was trying my patience and no doubt
Gustav's, too.
  `I thought that some of the field slaves might be Swedes by the look of
them. I found an opportunity once to ask one if he was from Sweden. He
whispered that his name was Dag and that he was from Norway. But the
Overseer saw us speaking. We were both flogged. I never spoke to another
slave again.'
  `And in the Palace?' I inquired.
  `I don't know about the house slaves, Master. I was never in the Palace.'
  `But you must have seen some of them,' Gustav insisted. `Perhaps when one
of them was sold?'
  `No, Master. I don't think...'
  `You don't think what?' Gustav asked.
  `Master, I don't think my former Master would ever sell a household
slave.'
  `Oh, really.' I was getting tired of this evasiveness. What was more, a
suspicion was forming in my mind. `Because he is so fond of them? How many
more fabrications do you think we will swallow?'
  `Master, my former Master has sometimes sold a field slave. Never a Palace
slave. If my former Master did not want a Palace slave any more, he would
have him killed. Palace slaves know things. Field slaves know nothing.'
  `Just as you know nothing, as you are trying to say.'
  Bo Bostrom did not answer.
  I eyed the slave with disgust.
  `Lies and more lies. You know, Gustav, I don't believe the camel story
either. Rashid probably knocked his teeth out. I have seen proof of his
temper before.'
  It was time to get to the bottom of all this. I looked at the slave
coldly.
  `You have learned well to tell lies in Rashid al-Akhri's household. This
is a story Rashid invented and commanded you to tell us. But he is not here
to approve of your little performance. You have been sold by Rashid al-Akhri
and you have treated me with the contempt of your lies. You have a last
chance now to take back your preposterous tale. If you lie again, I will
personally take care of your retraining. You will not emerge from that room
until you have understood who owns every inch of your body and every corner
your mind.'
  The Swede's glance darted back and forth between a stern-faced Gustav and
myself. Then, without uttering a sound, he prostrated himself our feet.

  We eventually realised that nothing new was forthcoming. Gustav bent down
and touched the slave's shoulder. Bo Bostrom rose to a kneeling position and
clasped his hands submissively behind his back. Gustav kept a comforting
hand on his shoulder.
  `Speak to us,' he said. `Did Rashid hit you? Is that how you lost your
teeth?'
  The slave swallowed hard and looked into my friend's face.
  `I am not lying, Master. It was a camel. My former Master had me punished
frequently, yes. I was clumsy. I was clumsy with the racing camels and one
of them kicked my teeth out. My former Master said to the Overseer that I
was too ugly now and that I should be sold and he told me to tell the first
story I told you.'
  Gustav exchanged a glance with me.
  `Jonathan, we have no reason to doubt his account of the face injury. I
think Yves has seen this sort of thing before in his veterinary experience.
A camel bite can be dangerous, too.'
  `Very well,' I said, turning to the slave. `Let us go back to this account
of how you were lifted. What did Rashid find out from you? What did he tell
you to say?'
  `Master,' the Swede replied, `my former Master never spoke to me about my
past. He never really spoke to me at all. Not even when he used my body. I
think he likes slaves from Scandinavia. It is all I can say.'
  He glanced at Gustav and lowered his eyes again.
  `Please be merciful, Master. Punish me if you are not satisfied. But do
not force me to tell you a lie.'
  Bo Bostrom was dismissed and I told him to go back to Dr. Fournier.
  `On my own, Master?' he said amazed, looking around as if someone should
be there to supervise him.
  `On your own. Now go.'
  When the slave had departed, Gustav said `We have to find out what Rashid
al-Akhri is up to, Jonathan. I am going to alert the Embassy. And when I
have made an appointment, I would like you to come as well.'
  `Jonathan, send on your cheque for that slave.  I am not going to buy him,
Swede or no Swede.  I have enough problems at present with those I have and
own.'

  It was some days later that Faisal, my driver, steered the Rolls bearing
Gustav and myself through the streets of the capital city, toward the
residential area where the Swedish diplomatic mission was located. I
recalled in my mind the two political scenarios I was involved in at
present.
  The first was where I had accepted for a fee a considerable number of EU
prisoners as slaves. They came from nigh on all of the EU states and were
cases of miscarriages of justice and of potential public embarrassment to
the political masters in power after their incarceration and even more
embarrassment, if the manner of their detentions and trials were to come to
light.
  The luring warm climate of Dahra had been a beckoning siren and over three
hundred problem cases had disappeared from sight in just over a year, all
officially dead in the home prisons from heart attacks, attacks by unknown
inmates and a variety of other plausible reasons.
  Seeing how I worked my operation, the EU governments had then proposed to
send me prisoners with very long prison sentences, or life sentences for
multiple crimes, so that they could lead a useful life, instead of suffering
physical and mental deterioration in various European prisons.  I was now
beginning for the first time to doubt their sincerity.
  As the recipient of these slaves, albeit for handsome fees for their
all-of-life maintenance, as insurance companies say, I was not just their
recipient, but their total owner and Master by the laws of Dahra.
  A second crosshair scenario had been introduced when one of the three
Judges of Dahra's barely used criminal courts, Khalila bint Omar, had very
skilfully manoeuvred me into accepting forty two invading mercenaries as
slaves, whose acceptance had saved them all from beheading and somehow had
avoided an inter-judge row between herself, her colleague and the senior
Judge, the Sheik of Dahra himself.
  Gustav, on the other hand, had merely helped out when citizens from his
own country had happened to be enslaved and brought each of them to the
safety of his home. In one sense, he had provided them with a safer level of
ownership, but I was coming to realise that he liked owning slaves.
  When Gustav's money was almost exhausted I had given him some so that no
matter when a Swedish slave turned up on the market, Gustav would have been
in a position to buy. But how would the Swedish Embassy react to the fact
that another Swede had turned up in Dahra? One of whom we did not know at
all, and Gustav was supposedly the owner of all Swedish slaves in Dahra!
What would they say about Bo Bostrom's allegations of possibly even more
Swedes, one more certainly, in the possession of Rashid al-Akhri, a
slave-owner well-known for his adherence to ancient and more often than not,
cruel traditions? And how did the strange tale from a Swedish prison fit
into all this?

  Having passed the Embassy's security check, we were both ushered out of
the reception rooms through French windows into a delightful enclosed
garden. Among flowering bushes, a water fountain rose in a basin of
multi-coloured tiles. Beside the fountain, under an enormous blue sunshade,
a coffee table had been decked for four with exquisite Rörstrand porcelain.
And beside the table, two persons were awaiting us.
  I already knew the Swedish Ambassador, Eva Friberg. In her grey blouse and
grey skirt, dark brown hair cascading to her shoulders in carefully arranged
coils, she looked as comfortable in the residual afternoon heat as any
Dahran in a dishdash.
  `Sir Jonathan,' the Ambassador presented, `this is Fisk Nilsson, our First
Secretary. He has been holding the fort for us here in Dahra for more than a
quarter of a century, while mere Ambassadors like myself come and go.'
  The First Secretary was a silver-haired man with a flamboyant moustache,
of wiry build and bronzed skin. He greeted me with a firm handshake.

  We sat down and Eva Friberg poured the coffee, its hint of cardamom
flavour a concession to local taste. There were no other staff or servants
in sight, which, considering the delicate matter we were about to discuss,
seemed only reasonable. On the Ambassador's slender hand, I noticed a rather
bulky-looking ring of vaguely familiar shape. Puzzled, I glanced over at
Gustav stirring his coffee and noticed that he was not wearing his signet
ring, which had been given to him by the Swedish Foreign Minister on a visit
to his home country. Maybe my friend had been disinclined to give the
impression of wanting to intimidate his fellow countrymen, with the honour
bestowed on him. But it seemed that the Ambassador had been presented a
similar ornament and - indeed! - as I glanced over at Fisk Nilsson offering
Gustav a selection of Swedish cookies, the First Secretary was wearing one
as well. And then the thought struck me that he must be perhaps the same
First Secretary who had once approached Gustav about the purchase of his
very first slave, Björn.
  Gustav had started to recount what we had gleaned from Bo Bostrom's
somewhat confused memories. I was not sure how many details he had given
away earlier, but obviously enough to convince the Embassy of the urgency of
the affair, which had resulted in our invitation.
  `This Bo Bostrom,' the Ambassador inquired when Gustav had ended his
account, `is he in good health? Physically? Mentally?'
  `As far as one can expect, when someone has been flogged repeatedly, lost
his front teeth and apparently not been permitted to speak for the past
three years.'
  `May I ask, if it is not too indiscreet, how much you paid?'
  `Only eight thousand Euro,' I replied. `The slave was sold to me.'
  Eva Friberg and Fisk Nilsson exchanged a glance.
  `So at least Rashid al-Akhri did not make a profit on the transaction,'
she commented. `Do you remember how much he paid for him?'
  `Twenty thousand, just like for the others,' the silver-haired Swede
commented.
  For a long time, the only sound to be heard came from the splashing
fountain.
  Then I leaned forward and met Eva Friberg's gaze.
  `I think, Ambassador,' I said coldly, `that you owe us both, not just my
friend Gustav, an explanation.'
  `Yes, we do,' she answered. She sighed, turned towards Gustav.
  `First of all, Mr. Ahlson, I would like to offer you my deepest apologies.
Not just on my own behalf, but also on behalf of my predecessors. The
apology to you, Sir Jonathan,' she added in my direction, `is for my own
failure to honour the ties of profession and friendship, which unite you
with my fellow countryman. Since the explanation you so rightly demand
involves activities long before my posting to this country, I would like to
hand it over to our First Secretary for him to explain.'
  She nodded in Fisk Nilsson's direction.
  `In all the time I have spent as an intermediary between the Dahran
government and our own,' the Embassy Secretary began, `two themes have
dominated our negotiations: economy and security. Sometimes, the emphasis
has been on the former, sometimes the latter, sometimes on both alike. It
also invariably happens that every Ambassador who is posted to the Sheikdom
is concerned about the continuance of favourable multilateral trade
relations particularly in oil and gas, and the peculiar security demands due
to Dahra's idiosyncratic social stratification.'
  All those years of talking about oil and gas exports and slavery, had
provided this refined diplomat with a wide range of circumlocutory
expressions.
  `Our situation is not made easier by the fact that instructions from our
Foreign Ministry at times take on an erratic, even contradictory pattern. We
are subjected to a constant flow of missives containing a variety of
exhortations, which in a nutshell, always amount to either `Economy first!'
or `Security first!'  Naturally, when representing our country's interests,
we never lose sight of either.
  It was the coinciding arrival of a new occupant to the Ambassadorial post,
with a particularly insistent specimen of the `Security first!' type
epistle, that caused a decision which ultimately made it necessary to
approach you, Mr. Ahlson.'
  Gustav nodded, but said nothing.
  `Our new Ambassador viewed the local security situation and as far as they
were known to us, the measures employed by the Sheik's government, with a
more than doubtful eye. Every higher level member of the diplomatic corps
goes through more or less the same phase. If I may paraphrase the rationale:
`Slavery?! But what if the international public finds out? Everyone will
know that I knew!' In local diplomatic circles, this aspect of the usual
culture shock has been aptly labelled `Dahran paranoia'. It is mostly due to
this phenomenon that every embassy prefers to keep an experienced long-term
occupant on in a subordinate post.'
  Fisk Nilsson exchanged a reminiscent smile with his boss.
  `In the case of one of Ms. Friberg's predecessors, however, the phase
lasted long enough to result in action. First, permission was obtained from
the Sheikdom's administration to use one of our own satellites for parallel
surveillance of all pulses associated with slaves of Swedish origin. In
addition, the Ambassador insisted that he himself, our Head of Security and
I be fitted out with portable transponders, so that we could be located in
an emergency.'
  The Secretary held up his hand and showed us the glinting signet ring.
  `All my efforts to reassure the Ambassador that such an emergency was
unlikely to occur notwithstanding, he insisted that we collect information
on every single Swede sold in the two Dahran slave markets. The plan being,
of course, that in the event of a major security breach, all evidence of
Swedish slaves, documentary and corporeal, should be speedily and easily
obliterated.'
  In spite of our sunny surroundings and the Embassy's exquisite coffee
coursing through my veins, I now felt a distinct chill travel down my spine.
The Ambassador graced us with a rictus of a smile and nodded to Fisk Nilsson
to continue his report.
  `The next step was a long-term plan to ensure that the slaves on whom we
were keeping tabs were not scattered all over the Sheikdom, but rather
assembled in a few locations. Even, if possible, in the hands of just one
owner. After lengthy consultation and search, I was instructed by the
Ambassador to approach you, Mr. Ahlson, as you had just bought a suitable
property at the time. This we did.  And you, sir, bought the Swedish
citizens who came on the market.'
  Out of the corner of my eye, I could make out Gustav's expression. It was
as if his face solidified into rock. He did not utter a word, however, which
I thought was just as well. Let them talk, I thought. We can always discuss
matters and make our own arrangements later.
  `The plan was abandoned again after a while. Inevitably, the Ambassador's
initial panic receded and made way for appreciation of the Sheikdom's more
than sufficient security system. Moreover, ridicule from diplomatic
colleagues can do a lot to undermine the seemingly brilliant scheme of a
beginner. As one Ambassadorial colleague put it: `I hear that in Dahra, you
can always sell a Swede'.'

  The First Secretary smiled and shook his head and the Ambassador took
over.
  `You must have thought my predecessors and your countrymen infernally
rude, Mr. Ahlson, first in stopping the funding of your purchases without
offering an explanation and years later arranging for you to be offered a
title and its medal. I must ask your forgiveness on their behalf. No one in
the Foreign Ministry was willing to spend funds on these slaves any longer,
so they must have thought some symbolic award would be not amiss. I am glad
you took it all in good grace and never spoke about it again. Though I still
believe my predecessors ought to have personally apologised to you.'
  `Of course,' Fisk Nilsson continued, `the ownership of slaves has its own
rewards -- as you, Mr. Ahlson, so eloquently documented by all those
purchases on your private account. It was at the time of your little bidding
contest with Mr. al-Akhri that representatives of various European
administrations had reached a consensus that instead of fretting about the
risks of the slavery system, one might as well use its advantages.
  `Your complaint to the Embassy about your failed purchase was perhaps a
little rash, Mr. Ahlson, considering that you had lost the bidding against
Rashid al-Akhri in a perfectly straightforward auction. The general attitude
among those of us working on the case was that you might perhaps simply have
waited for the next opportunity to expand your household. Still, I will
concede that as an object of interest to the potential owner, every slave
must be unique.
  `Since our governments were at the time exploring the possibilities of
granting relief to prison systems via the particular arrangements here in
Dahra and since both your own name and Mr. al-Akhri's had been mentioned in
connection with these negotiations, a compromise was found.'
  Now it was my turn to sit petrified before a pleasantly decked coffee
table. Prison systems? Gustav's failure to buy a Swede called Eric had
occurred some four years before my arrival to Dahra.
  The elderly Swede stroked his generous moustache and pursued his tale.
  `It was agreed that the dealers should continue to advise you, Mr. Ahlson,
of every Swede entering the marketplace, whereas Mr. al-Akhri reserved
himself the privilege of first refusal on all regular imports from Norway,
with perhaps the occasional Dane. As Rashid al-Akhri so succinctly put it:
`I am interested in the Scandinavian type, not in whatever unintelligible
language they speak'. Charming, I'm sure.'

  `It was at the time of my arrival to Dahra,' the Ambassador chimed in,
`that the diplomatic community was in earnest searching for suitable
candidates to take over a number of high-risk and high-cost prisoners. For
reasons of security, it was decided to place these ex-prisoners in select
locations, in case it should ever become necessary to destroy all evidence.
Moreover, both Mr. al-Atti and Mr. ben-Mustafa pointed out that the
specimens we were proposing to export would be below premium quality, though
above the average second-hand slave. The usual auction procedure, they
insisted, was simply not an option. Neither import logistics, nor their own
expenses would be sufficiently covered. At least that is what they said. I
suppose they meant that they did not expect a satisfactory profit margin.
  `The problem, of course,' she explained with a smile in my direction, `was
to find an agreeable owner. I must admit that this question gave us all in
the diplomatic community quite a headache, until you, Sir Jonathan, so
graciously helped out.
  `The Dahrans we approached with our proposal quickly lost interest. Slaves
who have spent a considerable number of years behind prison bars no doubt
have certain drawbacks in their physical and mental makeup. Our efforts to
sweeten the offer with financial incentives were doomed to failure. The
inevitable reply was, `If I want more slaves, I go to al-Mera or al-Qatim.
Are you suggesting that I can not afford them?' We were even turned down by
one or two factory owners. It seemed that word had gotten around and we were
faced with the same haughty airs. On the other hand, we were disinclined to
trust anyone completely lacking in experience. Finally the Dahran Ministry
of the Interior proposed that we extend our inquiries to ex-patriates with
long-term residence in the Sheikdom.
  `I would like to repeat my apology to you, Mr. Ahlson, for my failure to
convince my colleagues of accepting you as a candidate. I pointed out that
you had experience and personal interest. You seemed to have settled
permanently in Dahra. You hardly ever left the country. You were capable of
keeping your slaves under control. There had never been a single report of
trouble. Even after the government had stopped funding your purchases, you
continued buying every available Swede--which we understood at one time was
with the assistance of a Swedish foundation, and then out of your own funds.
So it was felt that you might also be interested in acquiring more,
especially under financially favourable conditions.'
  It was clear that the Swedish embassy did not know of my money gift to
Gustav. He had not divulged that point.
  `Unfortunately,' the ambassador continued, `from the point of view of my
peer diplomatic colleagues in the other missions, you were deemed, if I may
say so, `too picky'. They objected that you had never purchased a slave of
other nationality than your own and were therefore unlikely to accept so
motley a lot as the EU had to offer. Fisk Nilsson and I agreed to wait until
someone had tried out a number of test cases and then perhaps make a
separate offer of the Swedish contingent to you.'

  `In the meantime,' the Embassy Secretary addressed Gustav, `you gave us
quite a shock when it was reported that you had suddenly transferred all
your slaves to a new location, and booked a flight to Sweden. There was, I
am sorry to say, some concern that your sudden departure pointed you out as
a security risk, so it was insisted that you be kept under tight
surveillance during the entire stay, which turned out to be a harmless and
much-deserved holiday.'
  The Swedish Ambassador thoughtfully turned her signet ring back and forth
on her hand and looked up again with a determined expression.
  `Here, Mr. Ahlson, I feel obliged to offer you another heartfelt apology.
You may consider it disloyal. But it comes from both Fisk Nilsson and myself
and we believe it is your due. I see that you are not wearing your
surveillance ring today. We can only encourage you to discontinue its use.
We wear ours as one part of our normal security measures. We both know what
it is to be placed under observation. If the government considers it
necessary for us, we are in no position to refuse. But there is no reason
why a private citizen should undergo such gilded harassment. I was truly
horrified to hear that on the occasion of your visit to Sweden, your first
experience was to be singled out and fitted out with a tracking device.
Then, it seems, you were constantly pursued by envoys from the government. I
wish to make it clear that neither my Secretary nor I were instigators of
those political happenings.'
  She took a deep breath and looked at the other diplomat by her side, who
obligingly took over the narrative again.
  `There are a few more explanations we think are due to Sir Jonathan and
yourself. As we now know, the location you had transferred your slaves to
turned out to be what we thought was the home of your boss, in fact, your
new home.'
  He gave small bow in my direction.
  `It indicated neither a rupture of interest, nor a rupture of
confidentiality. This was confirmed later on, when you continued to loan
slaves to the Aloe Palace.
  `Another time, Mr. Ahlson, we learned that on the occasion of a business
trip to London, you had been politely `reminded' again of the continuing
observation you were placed under. It was the last straw. We placed a formal
request with the Ministry to stop following you around with lackeys and
aeroplanes. Which, I am happy to say, finally met with success.
  `Now we have to explain why you were cut off from further additions to
your household; that is to say why no more Swedes entered the regular Dahran
market. This brings us back to you, Sir Jonathan and ultimately to this
Swedish slave acquired from Mr. al-Akhri.'

  Eva Friberg had recovered her smile and looked back and forth between
Gustav and myself with an expression of impish amusement.
  `It certainly came as a surprise when the Ministry one day forwarded me
the message: `Count Ahlson has suggested that his boss, a certain Jonathan
Martin, be awarded a knighthood by the British Monarch. What do you make of
it?''
  The ambassador was again speaking.
  `At first, we wondered whether you, Mr. Ahlson, harboured some residual
resentment against us for having introduced you to the slave trade and then
having stopped our financial support. However, when I conferred with Sir
Graham that evening, we concluded that you were more than entitled to have
this request supported. And soon our conversation found an entirely
different track. It seemed to us that we might finally have found our
candidate.'
  The ambassador gave me a warm smile, which I could not reciprocate to any
great extent. The chairs were comfortable, but my back and neck muscles were
starting to ache. I longed to get away from this bright garden and its
bright chatter of political conniving. I dreaded to hear more, yet I
listened in fascination. How Gustav and I would be able to look each other
in the eye on our return trip was a mystery to me. On the other hand, I
reflected, if we made it through this afternoon together, we could truly
consider our friendship fireproof.
  `In my opinion,' said the Ambassador, `it was not advisable to start our
courtship of the man known as the Retrainer with vapid gestures of flattery.
Sir Graham brushed my objections aside. And proved correct, since you, Sir
Jonathan, have made public use of your title.
  `As you know, we needed someone who was not too selective, or as our
diplomatic colleagues said, `not too picky'. You confirmed this yourself,
when you told us that you kept all your slaves and did not intend to sell
any. It was one of the most amusing evenings I have ever had here in Dahra.
I said afterwards: `Sir Graham, you cheated! You warned your candidate
before the meeting.' But he was adamant; assuring us all that you had known
nothing about it.'
  She glanced encouragingly at me, but I did not feel like making a comment.
If she had not believed her British colleague, why should she believe me?
  `I must say you played along admirably, letting us know you were fully
aware of the absurdity of our little quiz. Instead of saying `I feed them
the usual: slave biscuits' you mentioned `a specific diet', as if you had
invented them yourself. When asked how you retrained your slaves, your
response was not `Don't you know what a Dahran retraining room is for?'
Instead, you coyly shrouded yourself in mystery.'
  I looked at the ambassador and hoped that my face did not display my
internal turmoil or anger.   My life, my properties, my career had been
used, abused and manipulated.  But then again, I had made gains out of the
manipulation.  In these matters, it takes two to tango.

  Fisk Nilsson chuckled and twirled his moustache. Then he continued his
part in the duet.
  `In the aftermath of those two initial meetings, we were yet again faced
with one of those annoying policy shifts from `Security first!' to `Economy
first!'. To put it bluntly, Sir Jonathan, you were deemed too expensive. Our
Ministry instructed us in no uncertain terms to find a separate candidate
for our own Swedish contingent. Someone who would be willing to pay. We
pointed out that our offer referred to slaves of inferior quality. We
pointed out that all expenses could be labelled as aid to developing
countries. Sweden, just like the other EU states, could hide its
contribution in the foreign aid budget and even increase the item to a more
respectable figure. All to no avail. `We are offering slaves; somebody must
be willing to pay for them.' With this embarrassing news, we conferred with
our EU colleagues, only to hear that our Finnish neighbours had the same
problem and had already found a solution.
  `The `somebody' willing to pay for Scandinavians was, of course, Rashid
al-Akhri. Again, we are truly sorry that we were unable to secure this
arrangement for either of you. But once our Ministry had got wind of the
Finnish position, we were instructed to follow their lead without further
ado.'
  The two diplomats exchanged wry smiles.
  `Now here,' Eva Friberg took up the thread, `we had found as undiplomatic
an opposite number as ever there was.
  `First, Mr. al-Akhri found it necessary to decree with great insistence
that he would only accept young and healthy slaves. I pointed out that these
were precisely the prisoners whose removal from the system would make a
difference in the budget in the long term.
  `I see,' he answered. `Your government has told you: Let them sweat for a
few years in the desert and let them die.'
  When I explained the situation of the miscarriages of justice, he asked
why we did not execute them and let their scandals die with them -- only to
gloat over my superfluous explanation that the EU states have no death
penalty, so it was not an option.
  `Let me guess,' he told me, with that unpleasant sneer of his. `None of
you cowards want to be responsible for having them secretly killed, because
you are afraid that someone might leak the story and you would all be faced
with murder charges. For the `crime' of ridding the state of inconveniences.
I will never understand you Europeans and your bashful scruples. So you want
the heat of Dahra to kill them for you? You want me to be your executioner?
Very well, as long as you graciously permit me to make some use of their
services before that happens. I shall oblige insofar as any slave who
insults me; and any slave who tries to run away is a dead slave. Apart from
that, I prefer to get some work and pleasure out of them before they die.'
What can I tell you. Negotiations with Rashid al-Akhri are the ultimate test
for every diplomat!'
  She shook her head.
  `Then we were instructed to offer Mr. al-Akhri one of those rings, despite
our joint warnings.' She exchanged a glance with the Embassy Secretary.
`Wasn't that a memorable occasion.'
  Fisk Nilsson squared his shoulders, put on a smouldering expression and
declaimed in harsh Arabic: `I am the head of the al-Akhri family. How dare
you suggest I need a foreign government to `protect' me. How dare you
suggest to spy out my movements, `for my own good'. All you are interested
in is to protect your sorry hides. How dare you think you can track me by
satellite, as if I were a slave!'
  The Swedish Ambassador shrugged her shoulders.
  `I have never been so mortified before. My staff spent four weeks
persuading Rashid al-Akhri to speak to me again.'
  Fisk Nilsson leaned towards me. The elderly Swede nodded to me and leaned
back again as he confided `We finally managed to secure the deal with Mr.
al-Akhri,' he continued. `One condition was that we cease our parallel
monitoring of slaves via satellite. We were only too happy to oblige. The
procedure had led to nothing but confusion and false alarms and what was
more, talk about those mysterious satellite pulses had got around. Another
condition was, predictably enough that in addition to the prisoners, Rashid
al-Akhri would be offered first refusal in a private viewing of every Swede
and Finn entering the Sheikdom via the usual trade routes. The Dahran
government was agreeable, as were of course the dealers. I don't think he
has refused any so far.
  Since then Mr. al-Akhri has received a number of slaves from Swedish and
Finnish prisons. Your slave, Sir Jonathan, this former prison guard, arrived
in one of Mr. al-Akhri's consignments. We followed the usual Dahran
procedure and enslaved someone who presented a grave security risk.'
  I know Gustav Ahlson and from the look on his face, although he had
remained quiet throughout the entire avalanche of revelations, I thought he
was about to explode.
  `Tell me, was that necessary?' he demanded.
  Fisk Nilsson sent Gustav an irritated look.
  `Really, Mr. Ahlson, would you please keep in mind that it was also done
to protect your interests. If this Bo Bostrom had spilled the beans to the
media, instead of turning to the prison warden, as he fortunately did and if
this small leak had turned into an international scandal, what would you
have said when pestered with questions from every side? `I know nothing
about slavery in Dahra. I have a bunch of slaves at home; they just dropped
from the sky. My friend and neighbour seems to own several hundred, but I
never noticed.' Good luck with selling that story!'
  `Fisk please,' said the Ambassador with a reproachful glance.
  `I am sorry, Mr. Ahlson. No offence. It just seems to me that we have had
nothing but complaints about this whole slavery business in the past while.
You should hear Mr. al-Akhri! He once tried to refuse a prisoner claiming
that `the slave did not look Swedish'. Now I ask you, is it our business to
discuss with the Dahrans how a Swede is supposed to look? `Mr. al-Akhri,' I
said, `if you think we are going to scan our prisons for specimens whose
looks you approve of, you are mistaken. If you don't like his looks, put him
to work where you don't see him. If you are looking for a specific type,
please turn to the dealers.' Actually...'
  The Embassy Secretary looked at his boss.
  `Ah, yes, Mr. Ahlson,' she continued, `quite apart from all this prisoner
business, which, as I have explained to my sincere regret I have been unable
to secure either for yourself or for your friend... seeing that the regular
channels of slave trade from our country seem at present to be flowing
exclusively into Mr. al-Akhri's possession, might it not be a convenient
option for you to put in special requests, whenever you wish to expand your
household? I am sure Mr. al-Atti and Mr. ben-Mustafa would be delighted to
import any type of Swedish slave you may be looking for. And even though
these transactions would not be government funded, I understand that the
lifting fees are by no means exorbitant.'
  `Madame ambassador,' I looked sharply at Gustav as he addressed his fellow
citizen Eva Friberg, `you may well have had nothing but complaints about the
problems that you created, but you have had no complaints from me, other
than being informed that without the foundation funds,  I would be
hard-pressed to buy any other Swedish slaves who came on the market here.
  `The political skulduggery in which you have engaged is proof of your
diplomatic skills of concealment, because in all my years here in Dahra, I
have never heard of other Swedish slaves being here.  Your words have opened
my eyes  to my self-delusion and my folly for having trusted you in the
first place.  I shall not be as susceptible to such lies and treatment from
you or anyone else in the future.'
  Gustav's outburst amazed me.  He is normally so quiet.  I also realised
that he had stayed speaking in English and that would have been for my
benefit.  I am sure that he would have been able to express himself more
richly in Swedish.
  What did amaze me however was that the ambassador was not fazed by
Gustav's comments.  It was as if diplomatic protocol did not allow for
expressions of surprise under a verbal lambasting.
  The ambassador tried to change the conversation away from the subject of
annoyance by addressing me.   I recognised the technique.
  `I have heard on the grapevine, Sir Jonathan, that you may be considering
taking extra numbers of prisoner slaves from the United States.'
  I smiled graciously and replied, `I am keeping my options open at this
stage, Madame ambassador.  It all depends on who makes the best offer. Apart
from a banker, I am a businessman, where the `bottom line' as our American
cousins say counts.'
  I let that concealment of the truth float in the air.  I was not going to
give her the pleasure of knowing the actual truth that I had not yet heard
of any new American offer.  After this session at the embassy, I might well
think again, and I took a perverse pleasure in seeking a look of shock on
the First Secretary's face, in that I had apparently confirmed a contact
with the American government on the one hand and more importantly, that I
might be considering not dealing with EU countries on the other.

  I don't remember how the meeting finally ended. Somehow, a very taciturn
Gustav Ahlson and I found ourselves dismissed with much shaking of hands and
effervescent assurances of Ambassadorial goodwill. The warm air of our way
back through the garden was followed by the coolness of the Embassy building
and the heat of the street. The doors of the Rolls closed, Faisal started
the engine and we sped off in the direction of the Western Road.

  `What do you think we should do now, Gustav? And all those Scandinavian
slaves at Rashid al-Akhri's Palace...'
  `Nothing, of course.'
  `Nothing?'
  `Have you not listened? Even if I had the money to buy them all, indeed
even if you bought them all, what would the result be? Rashid would buy
further Scandinavian slaves. I would own some more slaves, whom I am not
sure I want. Do you want me to repeat my mistakes?' Gustav commented.
  `So what do you want to do now?'
  Silence.
  Then he answered slowly: `I don't know. I have to think about it. Let us
talk tomorrow at the Bank.  But one thing for certain, I am going to enjoy
the ownership of my slaves as long as I own them.  I am not going to feel
guilty at their enslavement as I never requested it.'
  Looking at Gustav and wondering about the change of route he was
undertaking, I opened the limousine's built-in bar, took out a couple of
glasses and looked at the chilled drinks available. Selecting a bottle of
Pouilly Fumé, I held it up for my friend's approval. Gustav nodded.
  `You know what I have found out today?' I asked rhetorically, as I applied
the corkscrew.
  He gave me an inquisitive glance.
  `It is one thing to smile self-deprecatingly at one's reputation. It is
quite another thing to see someone else smile at it.'
  I pulled out the cork and poured us a glass each. The wine's aroma rose
and unfolded, rich and sweet, with its harsh underlay of resin.
  `Jonathan, I feel like Don Quixote.'
  `Gustav, I feel like H.C. Andersen's emperor.'
  That finally brought a smile to his lips.
  `Maybe I should give the title back,' he said. `I will certainly send that
infernal tracking ring to the Ambassador. Or send it round the world by
courier, just to annoy them all.'
  `Drat your title. You never use it anyway. What about me? I am the one who
should give it back.'
  He considered this, turning the crystal glass between his fingers.
  `On the other hand, Jonathan, look at it this way: Are you not in the
illustrious company of Sir Walter Raleigh and many other worthy men?'
  `Gustav, in that case, let me tell you something. Look at it this way: You
got twenty four slaves out of it.'
  `And you a few hundred.'
  We looked into each other's eyes, and in a mirror gesture raised our
glasses.
  `To your good health, Count Gustav!'
  `To your good health, Sir Jonathan!'

  The Lemon Palace slaves must have sensed the inner turmoil of earlier in
the afternoon. I certainly sensed relief on their part when I simply dropped
my attaché case into Gianni's hands and asked Ben, `Anything absolutely
urgent?' and upon his negative reply turned my back on them, and went out. I
took a sandbuggy over to the Lime Palace and headed directly for the pool
area.
  Klaas and Vitali, seeing me arrive, chased a couple of slaves from the
massage tables. Klaas, in a bout of insecurity, opted for the road of
minimal risk and stood motionless in the rest position. Vitali, of more
experience and courage, came forward and was about to address me, when
whatever he must have seen in my face made him close his mouth, stop in his
tracks and clasp his hands behind his back.
  I took them in for a moment. One, a gift to me from the al-Akhri brothers.
The other, imprisoned for a crime he had never committed and subsequently
shunted off to Dahra.
  `Two masseurs. Just what I was looking for.'
  And some peace and quiet to think, I mentally added.
  `Stay right here, both of you.'
  Turning towards the pool, I clapped my hands twice.
  `Everyone out,' I said and pointed towards the exit.

  During the ensuing, commendably smooth exodus, I had Klaas and Vitali
undress me and I lay down on the massage table. Under their expert hands,
the pain in my shoulders subsided and the pounding in my temples receded
somewhat.
  First things first, I thought. Was there anything I needed to do?
  Whichever subject of the afternoon's conversation came into my mind, the
only answer they provoked was an echo of Gustav's reply on our way back:
Nothing.  When in doubt, don't.  But on the other hand, I felt no doubt now
about the ownership of my slaves.  It was part of Dahran life.  I was part
of that life.  I owned slaves.  Simple logic which avoided any
self-recrimination.
  As I felt Vitali's hands on my tense neck muscles and Klaas, apparently a
late convert to reflexology, dug his thumbs into the soles of my feet, I
examined my inner landscape.
  Those who own slaves own them because they want to. I had often thought so
myself and the local representatives of the Swedish government had merely
proceeded from this very same axiom. Why then was I upset?
  Because, I answered my own question, you have been a conceited hypocrite
and these two have hurt your pride.  Had I had an over-estimated opinion of
my own self and importance in the Dahran scheme of things?  In business and
banking? No!  The results were there for all to see.  In my ownership of
slaves and their meaning to me?  Undoubtedly yes!  I realised that I liked
owning slaves and training them to my likes and way of doing things, and
turning them away from what I disliked.
  I had believed that the same government officials, who had no qualms about
sending prisoners off into slavery, somehow still cared about what happened
to them once they were enslaved.
  Somehow I had nurtured the idea that in offering this deal to me, Sir
Jonathan Martin, an English expatriate living in Dahra, they had been
looking for some sort of guarantee, some kind of assurance of humane
treatment -- whatever that was supposed to mean inside the context of
slavery. In fact, they had been looking for someone who would keep them
under control until they died--whether sooner or later was of no importance.
There was no way that either the Sheikdom of Dahra would let slaves return
whence they had come, and a multiplicity of countries could not.
  The full absurdity of including any such guarantee hit home. What
guarantees were there for a slave within the Dahran system, which offered
slaves no outside authority to appeal to and which indeed gave all owners
unquestioned power of life and death over their human property? Any such
guarantees given to the slave to limits on the power and will of the owner
were incompatible with the system itself. In fact, I myself had insisted,
from the very beginning, that if these prisoners were delivered to me, they
would become my slaves, period.
  If, however, I did not want to continue on this path of self-deception, I
had to ask myself why I had ever nurtured this idea. The answer in my mind
emerged with relentless clarity. I had believed it, because the thought was
flattering. I had fallen for the diplomats' honeyed speeches about my
professional and private fortune and ended up believing that all these
factors, correctly or incorrectly, had been relevant for their decision to
make their offer to me. What was more, I had actually thought that the
entire prisoner slave scheme had only been dreamed up because I, Jonathan,
the champion of the kinder, gentler, intelligent slavery, had created a new
system from scratch, which the European governments were so hugely impressed
with that they had suddenly got the idea to entrust hundreds of prisoners to
my capable and caring hands.
  The truth was much simpler and far, far less flattering.
  They had been looking for control and a secure location. Anyone who
guaranteed this served their purposes: Rashid al-Akhri, Gustav, myself - it
was all the same to them. They had been looking for slave-owners
indiscriminate enough to accept those whom they had wanted to get rid of.
They had been looking for slave-owners whom they could dump their dregs on
and never look back.
  A plaintive voice in my thoughts said: But they asked you whether your
slaves were well-treated, did they not?
  And another voice responded: Did they ever check?
  And then I thought: They never checked how Gustav treated his slaves,
either.
  Which brought me to my next question, Gustav? Was there anything he needed
to do? Several thoughts rushed to my attention. I firmly pushed them aside.
I would offer my friend assistance, but Gustav did not need me to make up
his mind for him.  He was a good man, a good banker, and indeed a good
slave-owner.  His own experience of life would give him, in time, the
answers he needed.
  I was a slave-owner and I liked owning slaves.  Period.  Others had found
this out and capitalised on it in one aspect.  It gave me also the
opportunity to capitalise on the needs of others from governments down to
individuals from whom I had purchased slaves.
  Klaas now had his hands on the back of my thighs. Vitali had moved upwards
from my much relieved shoulder muscles and was giving me a soothing and
sensual head massage.
  Another question that troubled me was whether my nephew Jack and his wife
were not headed down the same illusory road Gustav had been travelling for
all those years. Did they not, like Gustav, sometimes let their slaves eat
with them? Were they trying to deny the difference between owner and owned?
  But then I remembered what Jack had once said, when walking in his garden:
`What difference does it make if I sit at the same table as my slaves? They
are my property.'
  I looked back at my memories and felt reassured. Fiona and Jack were even
less experienced than I was, but they did not fit into the category of
slave-owners who pretended not to be slave-owners. They had only to pretend
once that their slaves were free and that was when Jack's mother surprised
us all with a visit.
  I recalled what each had said about their personal purchases.
  `They can look after me and do what I need to get done' -- this had been
Jack's comment on his body slaves Beno and Vedel.
  But when Fiona had rounded up all known and available Scottish slaves in
Dahra, had I not assumed her to be pursuing some kind of rescue scheme,
similar to the one dancing through Gustav's mind? Had I not unthinkingly
supposed that just like Gustav's, Fiona's decision was based on the vague
notion `I don't care in the least about all the other nationalities, but if
my fellow countrymen get enslaved, I want to make sure that they are safe'?
Had I not suspected her of performing some kind of pseudo-patriotic alibi
act, to compensate for getting her hands dirty on the slave trade?
  Nonsense!
  Should anyone, for any reason, have the wish not to increase the demand
for slaves of a specific nationality, the thing to do would be not to buy
any of them.
  In fact, Fiona had once explicitly stated her motivation for selecting
slaves of Scottish origin: `It is as I expected -- sometimes, I get these
pangs of homesickness...'

  My friend Gustav, since the day he bought Björn, was not living alone in a
strange country any more. He had Swedes around him, who could not leave him.
Gustav could have refused to buy Swedish slaves. He never did. He looked for
them in the catalogues all the time. Do altruistic fancies obliterate
economic facts? Gustav had absolute power over his slaves. But he had never
previously found the guts and rationality to acknowledge it.  Now, I believe
he was facing reality as it is.
  Toward his government, Gustav had not acted like a citizen, but like a
servile underling, allowing himself to be manipulated. He had accepted
minimal explanations and cheap symbols. Not once had he questioned their
reasons.

  My shoulders were relaxed. My feet felt warm and heavy. My skin revelled
in Klaas' and Vitali's touch. I raised a hand to indicate that the session
was over and sat up.
  `Vitali, you are an excellent masseur. You too, Klaas. Thank you.'
  Klaas replied, `You are welcome, Master.'
  `It is our pleasure, Master. Are you feeling better now?' Vitali inquired.
  I gave each a brief embrace.
  `Thanks to you both, I will survive the rest of the evening.'

  The line of slaves who approached me to make a request that evening was a
short one, probably owing to everyone's observation or hearing of my stormy
mood upon arrival home.
  Aziz, whom I had encountered in the hallway, had greeted me respectfully
as always and added `You are troubled, Jonathan. Is there anything I can
do?'
  After brief consideration, I had merely replied `Not at the moment. But
send someone over to the Aloe Palace, please, to call Yuriy and Radek. After
dinner, I need to speak to them.'

  My two field Overseers were waiting after dinner at the side of the
veranda, the slightly taller Yuriy next to the pure blond Czech. In their
gait and their quiet stance side by side awaiting my attention, I sensed the
intimacy and companionship of friends and lovers. Two slaves in positions of
trust, of responsibility, in tune with each other and in tune with their
duty to me.
  When everyone else had left the veranda, I motioned them over. Both stood
at rest with the grace of experienced slaves. In their open necked Cossack
shirts, I could make out the shape of firm chest muscles. With the deference
of experienced slaves, they waited for me to speak.
  `Yuriy, Radek, Gustav Ahlson is at present having some trouble with his
slaves.'
  `Yes, Boss, we noticed,' Yuriy said.
   `You may be called upon to help my friend sort out some of his
difficulties. Tomorrow night, I want you both at the ready in the Aloe
Palace slave quarters with fifty of the slaves and Overseers. Just wait have
them wait outside for me.'
  `Yes, Boss.'
  `I do not expect any serious trouble tonight. But just in case... Radek,
you go back to the Aloe Palace now and ask to see Master Gustav. Tell him
that you and all my field slaves are at his disposal. If he requires your
assistance, you obey him as you obey me.'
  `Yes, Master.'
  `Off you go. And Radek, afterwards find yourself a field slave for
tonight. Yuriy stays with me.'
  `Yes, Boss. Good night. Until tomorrow.' Radek had directed his greeting
at Yuriy as much as at myself. Quick as lightning, he came forward, dropped
to his knees at my side, kissed my hand, flashed a smile at Yuriy and sped
off into the Dahran night.
  I leaned back and took in the beauty of Yuriy's body, his shoulders, his
muscular arms drawn behind his back, the steady gaze of his blue eyes.
  `Yuriy, I am more than pleased with Radek and you. You are respectful and
your obedience is faultless. You can tell him that tomorrow.'
  `Thanks, Boss. I will.'
  I turned towards the Palace and called for Bob. He appeared with two
lanterns for the table, but I waved them away.
  `I am going to bed, Bob. Who is waiting up for me tonight?'
  `Tony Sert, Boss.'
  `Tell him to go back to his quarters. He will have to wait until another
time. Tell him to talk to James tomorrow. Yuriy, go up with Bob and let my
body slaves prepare you. Make sure you apply lots of lube.'

  Bob's appraising glance at my Head of Stables was neither lost on me, nor
on Yuriy himself. As I watched my slaves disappear into the Lemon Palace, I
returned to considering my own situation and Gustav's.
  Fiona's words at the Aloe Palace echoed in my mind: `I love owning them'.
What was the point in owning slaves, if one did not enjoy their ownership?
  Then Jack's comments in the garden of Gustav's former home rose in my
memory: `They know that we have bought them to serve us.' What was the point
in owning slaves, if they did not acknowledge their place and purpose?
  When accepting my ex-prisoners, I had fallen for a number of
self-deceptions. But two things were certain: My slaves knew that I owned
them to enjoy their services. And I knew that I enjoyed their ownership and
the services they gave me.
  Gus Jennings' words about the six slaves gifted to me by the al-Akhri
brothers came back to me: `They are not employees. They are not men. They
are slaves. There to do your bidding. There to please you and you alone,
24/7. What you want, when you want it, how you want it.'
  Would Gustav find out what he wanted? How far could I help him without
taking his decisions from him?
  I thought back to that surprising evening four years ago, when Tariq had
presented me with Yuriy, my first slave.
  `What would I do with him?' I had asked my friend.
  'Jonathan, Jonathan' Tariq chided me, 'you are still thinking like a
European. When in Dahra, do as the Dahrans do! I will not answer those
questions for you, because you will have to find answers for them not just
for yourself, but in yourself.'
  Very well, I thought. I would let Gustav find his own answers.
  As far as Yuriy was concerned, I knew what I wanted right now.

  He was standing naked `at display' beside my bed. My body slaves were
waiting `at rest' beside him. They needed no instruction to help me undress.
Terry, as usual, pounced on my shoes. James unbuttoned my shirt.
  I turned my head in Yuriy's direction.
  `Lie on the bed, on your back.'
  In a trice, he was in position.
  `Raise your knees towards your shoulders and spread them. Put your hands
on your knees and hold them there.'
  My body slaves finished undressing me. I walked past the bed and glanced
down at Yuriy. He was holding his thighs open, presenting me a full view of
his admirable tackle and his crack. The anus, as I expected, was glinting
with lubrication. Without comment, I turned away and entered the bathroom.

  When I re-emerged, Yuriy was still lying as I had left him. His cock,
however, had taken on a life of its own and was now lying thick and firm
between his drawn-up legs. I sat down in the chair beside the bed. James
took position behind me to give my hair its regular oil treatment, while
Terry knelt down and started massaging my feet. Looking over towards Yuriy,
I saw that his head was now lying on the side, so that I could make eye
contact if I wanted to.
  `Put your hands behind your thighs, Yuriy, and raise your feet.'
  He did so, spreading his legs even further wide open.
  When my body slaves had finished their massage, I sent them off with my
laundry and Yuriy's shorts and shirt. The door closed.
  I paused at the foot of the bed, looking down at my Kazakh. There was a
sheen of perspiration on his face and on the back of his thighs. The leg
muscles were now shaking slightly.
  My knees placed on either side of Yuriy's body, I bent over him between
his upraised legs. With one hand behind his head and one between his
shoulder blades, I lowered my head and kissed him deeply.
  I let my tongue play with his. His warmth was between my thighs, against
my cock, under my chest, in my hands, against my lips, around my tongue. I
felt him respond in a wave of pleasure. I ended the kiss and laid his head
back down.
  `Grasp your ankles now, and pull all the way back.'
  I placed my hands on the outside of his buttocks. On either side of his
smooth balls and perineum, I let my thumbs travel back and forth. Then I
looked into his eyes, and slipped my index and middle fingers into his anus.
Yuriy took a deep breath, exhaled, and I felt his muscle relax under my
touch.
  With no further delay, I placed my penis at the opening and pushed all the
way inside. His heat surrounded me and I held back no longer. I only knew
the tension in my body, Yuriy's heat beneath me, his sweat; the scents of
our joint arousal. The stress of the day, the conflicting emotions; the loss
of certainty and renewal of determination, all were transformed into a wave
of sexual energy that sent me pounding my slave with such an overwhelming
force that I became oblivious to everything else around me. Somewhere
through the haze, I heard Yuriy's moans as I penetrated him deeply again and
again, felt him shudder beneath me and his warm eruption between our chests.
I continued thrusting into him with almost desperate urgency, until I
finally felt the surge of my release and spent myself inside him.

  When I opened my eyes, Yuriy's arms were lying on the bed. His legs were
limp against my shoulders. His chest was heaving, and we were both
recovering our breath. Then Yuriy lost his glazed look, blinked and caught
hold of his ankles again.
  I bent down for another long kiss. Then, pulling out, I sat back to take
him in again. His cock was now lying limply on a flat belly amid a pool of
cum. His anus told the tale of my relentless fucking. He did not move out of
position, but waited, legs held wide, for whatever I would say or do.
  `Come, Yuriy, let's take a shower together.'
  He followed me, hands on his belly and chest to prevent his cum from
dripping all over the place.
  In the shower, Yuriy soaped me and sponged me carefully and lovingly, as
he had done many a time long ago in the Bank's villa in the capital city and
at the Aloe Palace. When he had patted me dry, he remained standing with the
towel in his hands. Good, I thought. Here is a slave who knows to wait for a
Master's commands and does not presume this and that, nor speak when he
senses that his Master is not in the mood for conversation. In fact, I
thought as I waved Yuriy permission to dry himself, there was no reason why
Gustav should not enjoy the same privileges I enjoyed and own slaves whose
ownership was not a source of worry, but a source of pleasure.
  `I want you to sleep in my bed tonight, Yuriy,' I said, and was answered
with a smile, a `thanks, Boss', and a warm body alongside mine. I draped one
arm over Yuriy's chest. He raised my hand to his lips, and gave the palm a
lingering kiss. Feeling his bum against my cock with unspoken promises for
the morning, I closed my eyes and drifted off to Morpheus' realm.

End of Chapter 21
To be continued ...

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