Date: Thu, 11 May 2006 18:55:28 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Time Line - Chapter 1 - Gay - Authoritarian

 The Time Line by Gerry Taylor

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

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

  If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful
for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage
now.

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

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

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


  Preface


  I have always preferred to live life as it comes -- evolving,
unfolding, unravelling, unrolling, spreading its soaring and protective
wings around me. There are those who mistakenly try to control life, as
if they could master it or influence the stars or the tides. For me, some
things, the greater pattern of life included, are best left to themselves
and to their own chartered courses in the greater universe around us.

  Sometimes, I think that we are but passengers on the ship of life.
Passengers, yes, special to ourselves and unique to others. We hear the
beat of the drum of life. We see its comedy and its tragedy. We feel its
rhythms and unyielding grip and we may even tap our foot to a
synchronised beat of an inspiring Muse.

  In so doing, we come to realise that we are in the hands of the Fates,
partly capable of plotting the course of our own destiny, but knowing
that our destiny is but the breaking of a single thread away. The
filament is spun and we form part of the great interlinking fabric,
willingly or unwilling. And then in one fell second's swoop or in a
thousand pin daily pricks, it is over for us.

  When that happens trustfully, we will have left our mark in the sands
of time and this human time line of ours will be complete.

  I live in the Middle East, in the Sheikdom of Dahra to be precise, and
have done so for just over five years, where I work in banking.

  All of that having been said, it might give the impression that my life
is dry like this arid and sandy country, or otherwise boring, staid and
sober like the nine to five unadventurous work of modern electronic
banking. Let me assure you, my life it is nothing of the sort! For one
simple but expansively underlying reason, Dahra's own dark secret!

  My apologies - I have been prattling on and have not introduced myself.
Martin, Sir Jonathan Martin at your service.

  Dahra,

  May 20xx



  Chapter 1 -- Filialism



  I don't quite know how it happened. It just did. The Lemon Palace
acquired an `official' flogger. Some say that one of my overseers was
too tired on the sultry day to give a recalcitrant slave twenty strokes
of a camel-cane. Some say that the Overseer was too angry and fearful in
his anger of permanently hurting my property -- slaves in Dahra are
property I will have you note. Neither argument I quite accept. But now
when a flogging had to take place at the Lemon Palace or at the adjacent
al-Kadir property being restored and replanted as a farm, there now was a
slave who was called on to do the flogging.

  That slave was the former squat and hairy Russian sergeant, Alexei
Gritsov. He was still squat but no longer hairy as the depilatory cream
had done its job and apart from the close crew-cut and trimmed pubes, he
was both naked and hairless as he stood in front of me, camel-cane at the
ready; the slave to be punished at his side.

  Normally, I do not witness punishments. I just happened to be at the
al-Kadir property one evening when the kofilas had returned from the
fields and were about to disperse.

  What did surprise me was that the slave to be punished was Alexei's
own nephew, Oleg. I looked at my Overseer, Georgi Gridov who read the
question on my lips and upturned eyebrow.

  `The slave who performs least well each day from all the kofilas
receives five strokes of the cane, Master.'

  `Who determines the lack of performance?'

  `The other slaves in the area, Master, not just in the kofila.'

  `Proceed,' I said and nodded simultaneously to Alexei.

  Oleg had also heard my command and bending over, his backside to the
assembled slaves, grasped the back of his knees.

  The camel-cane swished down viciously cutting the air with biting slice
and was followed by a scream and Oleg shouting out `One, Master.'

  Four other shouts, not quite screams, followed and four counts.

  Alexei took his nephew by the shoulder and turned him round for those
of us looking on to see and then showed his backside again to the
assembled slaves. Five red weal marks were there as if put across his
nephew's buttock with a marker and a ruler.

  I read body language, and I could see that Alexei was not pleased in
having had to punish his nephew in public, and worse still, in my
presence.

  I looked at Georgi and said, `This improves productivity?'

  `Yes, Master. Without the shadow of a doubt.'

  I beckoned Alexei over and said, `Walk back with me to the Palace.'

  `Yes, Master,' his Russian accent still noticeable as he is still
learning English. `Sorry, about Oleg. He is a lazy boy, just like his
father who never worked a day in his life.'

  `You asked me to buy a slave who has never worked in his life? Is that
it?'

  `Master, if you remember correctly, I did not say a word. You bought
him merely because I glanced at him with my eyes. I did not even have to
ask you.'

  `I think you still look after him, Alexei. Do you not?'

  `He is my sister's boy. What can I do? I will give him another five
when I get him alone tonight.'

  `No. Do not do that. Tell him that the Master wants to hear in one
month's time how hard he is working. I think you were embarrassed that
he was being punished and that I was there to see it.'

  `Yes, Master, doubly so that you were there. I am every day in your
debt.'

  `In my debt? Why?'

  `Because, Master, because you did not laugh.'

  `Laugh?'

  `At the size of my small balls. When you were looking at my balls in
the slave centre. Everyone who knows the size of my balls laughs. The
doctors in the army always did. That is why I had to be tougher than
anyone else. When you weighed my balls in your hand. You did not even
smile. You did not laugh. I am in your debt.'

  `I saw the size of your wide shoulders, Alexei, and the size of your
arms were so big and strong. I was so amazed that when I got to your
balls, I forgot to laugh.'

  `Master, I think you are making fun of me now.'

  `No, Alexei, I am not, but I am smiling. You are like Overseer Georgi.
He is not well built, but he has a great heart.'

  `Yes, Master, I agree. Georgi is like a small scarecrow but he gets
everyone to work without even raising his voice. As for Oleg, I will talk
to him tonight in a quiet voice like Overseer Georgi and tell him he will
be sent the fifth compound to be fucked blind if he does not work better.
He hates getting fucked.'

  I put my arm over Alexei's shoulder and walked the rest of the way
back to the Lemon Palace. The word would get out of my sign of approval
as to how he flogged his own nephew.



  When our dearly beloved Chairman, Charlie Deckam, and I use that
adjective sincerely and with no shade of sarcasm, had requested me to
accept his son, young Georgie, as my new junior partner at the branch in
Dahra, I fully accepted his request at a number of levels. First and
foremost, because he is Chairman of Deckams Bank and my senior in
partnership. Secondly, because he requested it as is our custom and had
not imposed the young tearaway on me. Thirdly, because Georgie had to go
somewhere - young partners can only stay at head office in London for
only so long. Fourthly, because I heard hurt pride in Charlie's voice,
both pained and unspoken at one and the same time.

  Charlie Deckam is very proud of the Bank which goes back to the
Peninsular War and beyond, of the Deschamps name, now suitably modernised
to Deckham, and of a Bank where a Deckam has always sat at the helm as
captain of the financial ship and head of the table as Chairman. That in
Charlie's eyes, alas, might be coming to an end, as his son Georgie was
gay and, if I make no bones about it, was one who had quite a number of
older lovers - for such was his age preference, not least among whom was
to be counted the Bank's own personnel partner.

  But fifthly and most of all, I heard in Charlie's voice a plea to take
Georgie and protect him, to protect him from himself and from actions
which went far beyond the sowing of wild oats, more like the hosing and
spraying of seed in the beds and bathrooms of countless lovers, all this
before the tender age of twenty five.

  Charlie's shareholding in our private Bank ensured him two seats on
the board, and like his grandfather and father before him, he had given
the second seat to the son who would one day succeed him. In his case,
his only son.

  That being said, I do not wish to imply that Georgie Deckam was in any
way rude or impolite or uncaring. He was simply Georgie with the Deckam
sex-drive, albeit heading in an orientation that had not manifested
itself in the family for a number of generations.

  Anyway, if all of my cerebral reasons failed, the single reason of
friendship soared above all else. And friendship towards an old friend
would have quite sufficed on its own and without any other reason, to
have had me say `yes'.

  And `yes', it was. Nominated at the January board meeting, in the
most traditional of forms of filialism, Georgie arrived Dahra in February
and I had him settled in a villa which the Bank keeps in the capital city
of Dahra and which normally caters for visitors, the external auditors
and those who visit sporadically or by international banking law.

  The Bank's branch in Dahra now had, by pure coincidence and I tell not
a word of a lie, a senior partner who is myself, and two junior partners,
all of whom were gay, and again by a coincidence which had not happened
in other branches for decades, all of us were English.

  The other junior partner was Colin Bowman who transferred from Brazil
after the murder of his lover. Since then, I have worried at times for
Colin who has lead a quiet private life as far as I can tell in his own
home with only a small number of male slaves to care for his needs. I
think that because he has never recovered from his lover Carlos's death
he immersed himself in our principal function at the Bank which was the
placement of international bonds, a task at which he was a past master.

  Colin was the quiet type, whose depth of love for his dead partner in
life I never quite managed to grasp. His was a love whose profundity I
have not been able understand given that I had never experienced it
myself to that degree. Outside of banking hours, Colin kept to himself.
He attended, of course, his rota of functions on the diplomatic and
business circuit. And then, he would disappear back home to his own quiet
household.

  Georgie requested to see me one day in March around lunch time. I
recognised the manner and the timing. We do it at Deckams all the time.
You ask to see someone a couple of minutes before lunch which means that
you want a private chat and a sort of `Wouldn't it be nice if you were
free also for lunch' into the bargain.

  `Of course, Georgie. How about a spot of lunch?'

  `On me, Jonathan, I am taking up your time.'

  One of the advantages of being a partner at the branch is that lunch is
served at your table for you if you so wish, while the others on the
staff would queue their turn at the carvery and salad bars.

  There is also a small partner's dining room but I never use that
unless the guest is a customer or a stranger to the Bank. So, in order
not to make Georgie feel that this was a formal lunch, both of us queued
with cashiers and officials. I noted that he mimicked my choices from the
menu which I put down to nervousness and a lack of confidence in what he
had to ask, or to say to me.

  We took a table over by the windows on the east side of the dining-room
which gave us a glorious view of the port and the sea beyond. The soup
was courgette and carrot and as we broke bread over it, I said to
Georgie, `now what was it you wanted to talk about,' whereupon he
dropped a piece of his bread into the soup in his now clear nervousness.

  `You know, Jonathan, that I have been living for the past month in the
villa. Part of the family trust fund has kicked in now that I am twenty
five, and I was thinking that I might get a place to live in here in
Dahra.'

  I carefully studied a piece of carrot in the soup as it did a circular
version of the crawl, and then I looked up at him.

  `It's not, Jonathan...it's not that the villa is not fine. It is. But
I thought it might be better to own a property.'

  `You mean a sort of investment.'

  Georgie looked relieved that I had taken that particular tack.

  `Yes, indeed.'

  `And a place where you could have your own freedom and your own
friends, without the need of a housekeeper and cook looking over your
shoulder.'

  Georgie's `yes' this time was not as unequivocal and sure as his
first one, now that I had veered the conversation hard into the wind.

  `And have you found any friends since you arrived that you thought
might be nice to invite back to the villa?'

  This time I did not study any carrot nor stir any soup but looked him
in the eyes.

  There was the slightest of blushes and the slightest of hesitations.

  `Only once, Jonathan, when the help were on their day off.'

  `Which is only once a week I would say? And Georgie, once a week is
not enough for you to have a friend, a boy-friend, eh?'

  At that Georgie blanched.

  `You know?'

  `I know.'

  `Does Dad know?'

  `He most certainly does. About far more of your escapades that he has
ever cared to mention. Your dad, Georgie, is a banker and he knows how to
keep his mouth shut. Even when it hurts him to think that there might be
not be a further direct descendant in the line of Deckams at the Bank.'

  `Oh, God! I thought I was more discreet than that.'

  `All young men of all orientations underestimate the power of their
drives and overestimate their powers of discretion.'

  `Oh, God! What has Dad said?'

  `Nothing, Georgie. He is the soul of discretion. What I know of you is
of my own knowing. You are here to learn banking which, I can assure you,
you most certainly will! Or will feel my wrath. But Georgie, if you wish
to trust me, there is a lot more than banking that you can learn here in
Dahra.'

  I had Georgie's full attention and he was nodding agreement. There was
a chance perhaps after all that the maxim `I am not young enough to know
everything' might be true. He had aged and was listening.

  `To learn what has to be learned about Dahra; about sex and sexual
orientation here,' and at that I tapped the table to indicate the here
and now of the time and country location. The spoon which was on the way
to his mouth stopped and he looked at me half-open mouthed.

  `You have to be discreet. Are you a naturally discreet person,
Georgie, or are you simply the young tearaway whose reputation you have
so assiduously being trying to live up to?'

  `Tearaway? Discreet?'

  `Is there an echo in this dining-room, Georgie, or what?'

  `Sorry, Jonathan, no one has ever spoken to me so frankly about sex
and sexual orientation over a bowl of soup.'

  I smiled at his facetious attempt at levity, and recognised the ploy of
trying to buy time to get his thoughts in order.

  `I am a discreet person, Jonathan, if that is what you mean and if
that is what is needed. I have never broken a confidence either as a
banker or as a friend. I am sorry if what you have heard of me reduces me
to some sort of hooligan.'

  Maybe I was a bit hard on the young man. But in Dahra you have to grow
up fast, particularly if you are a foreigner with little knowledge of its
culture or of its past. There is a criminal court and two slave centres
which can ensnare the unwary before you can say `misdemeanour', let
alone the word `crime'.

  `Thank you. Now as to your first suggestion, a property of your own. I
think that is an excellent idea. What cash total would you spend for
property and furnishings? How good is your family trust fund in that
regard?'

  `Just over four million euro.'

  `Good. Then think of a property for anything up to about two million,
and half a million to furnish, about five to ten miles outside the
capital city. The other million you will need in time for other
purchases. I will give you the name of a good estate agent here. Use him
alone, not his partners or bosses. I will speak to him first to ensure
your needs are fully met.'

  `My needs?'

  `Hello, echo. Yes, your needs. Here in Dahra you cannot have any real
boyfriends as you might have had in London. It just does not happen that
way here to any great extent, and if it does it is dangerous.'

  `So, how then, Jonathan?'

  `All things in due course, but as I say it will depend on your
discretion, as so your life.'

  He looked at me clearly not understanding the full import of what I was
saying or at least trying to say to him.

  One of the waiters saw that we had finished our soup and collected the
bowls off the table.

  `More water, sir?'

  `Yes, please.'

  We waited until the water was poured and the soup bowls gone before
resuming the conversation.

  `You're not shocked, Jonathan, by my...needs?'

  `Not in the least. They are easily catered form if your discretion
were to be guaranteed.'

  We each worked our way through a rillette de saumon and some early
spring haricots. I knew we were harvesting spring beans from the Palace
farms and I found myself wondering whether these beans were my own,
purchased in Dahra's daily vegetable markets.

  `There is one other thing you are going to have to do for me, or
rather for your Dad and indeed for yourself. Think of it as a personal
favour to me and of a debt to be repaid to your Dad.'

  `What is that, Jonathan? Anything you say.'

  `You are going to get married to a nice English girl before the year
is out.'

  I had his own glass of water in my hand ready for him and which he
downed almost in one gulp, once his coughing had subsided.

  `You think I am mad, Georgie?'

  He was looking at me as if I had stepped off a space ship from planet
Zog. More surprised, he could not have been.

  `Your marriage, Georgie, will be one of convenience for you, for your
Dad, for the Deckam family, and may I add, for the young woman in
question. She will be looked after for life once she has a young son,
preferably two, by you. Deckams will have a future chairman in fifty
years from now. Your Dad will be as proud as punch and you, Georgie, will
have what you really want, that is if your tearaway lifestyle drops even
to half of what it has been.'

  `Jonathan, have you gone insane? I have nothing against women. I am
just not interested in them.'

  `No, Georgie, I have never been more serious. And I really could not
care less about your interest or lack thereof in women. I am interested
in the future and your place in it as a Deckam.'

  `But to marry someone, just like that?'

  `To have all those one night stands, just like that? To break your
father's heart, just like that? Not to have a care in the world, just
like that? Not to notice that your Dad did nothing to stop you from
getting your trust fund monies, just like that? Throughout history, of
which you are obviously not a student, couples have married and have been
married to each other by their families for political or social or even
financial convenience, frequently with the objective of producing
progeny. Wars have been waged over less.'

  `Sorry, Jonathan, you took me by surprise,' he said as he dried his
lips with a napkin. `I never actually thought of it along those lines.'

  `I think, Georgie, you never thought of it at all, either in macro-
let alone in micro-view. Let's take all of this one step at a time.
First, let me recommend Masid al-Karif. This is the estate man, who will
find you a home that you can afford here in Dahra. Once you get the
property, we shall then address your other more personal needs. Provided
that you can last a week.'

  Again, Georgie was caught off guard and ended up coughing and reaching
again for his glass of water.

  Georgie Deckam was, in more senses than one, the son of a banking
father. He was the last scion of a proud and decent family of bankers. He
had been entrusted to me. I knew that. It had not been necessary to spell
it out for me. The love of a father for his son was there. The father
knew the son needed a tutor in life, if not also in love, and he did what
any father would do, he reached out to help as best he knew how.

  I just hoped that Charlie's faith in me was not misplaced.



  After my talk with Georgie, the afternoon at the Bank flew by with the
hundred and one details which make up the life of the modern banker.
Although it may not seem so to the outsider, slaving over the detail of
multiple transactions, each one profitable, is what creates the
foundation of long-term financial success.



  I found myself restless on the drive back to the Lemon Palace, and no
sooner had I changed after the day, I took myself for a walk through the
grounds of the first property I had purchased in Dahra, the Aloe Palace.
A small compact structure which had once served as a residence for a
member of the ruling family, it was now serviced by about two hundred of
my slaves in twenty five or so kofilas, who were principally engaged in
the growing of Aloe plants for my factory, itself on the grounds between
the Aloe and Lemon Palaces. The land was also used for producing a
variety of vegetables.

  I wandered across to the Aloe sap factory which employs about fifty of
the slaves. As I walked in, there was a shout, `The Master' and those
who were standing sank to the floor and those, who were sitting at two
long conveyor belts packing plastic bottles of some of the world's best
natural sunscreen, bowed their heads and stopped working as the conveyor
belts slowed to a halt.

  The assistant in charge of the area I had entered, Donnie, came over to
me.

  `Master, it is a pleasure to see you visit us.'

  `Don't let me interfere,' I said indicating the cessation of work.

  Donnie clapped his hands twice and motion and action resumed. The
former petrol pump attendant was a pleasant and hard working slave who
after five years in my ownership, had by his own admission all but
forgotten Luton. Now he had a position of trust and confidence which he
would never have attained back in England in a hundred years.

  Donnie exuded good health. His once skinny arms had strengthened. His
chest had filled out. He had put on muscle and weight. All of this for my
better service and his own healthier long-term servitude with me.

  `Master, let me get Iñaki for you.'

  `No, you can walk me round.'

  `Yes, Master,' the young slave said and positively beamed.

  I noted the computer monitors with various programmes displayed and
changing figures.

  `We are coming to the end of to-day's production, Master,' and he
pointed to the stacked cases of Aloe sap with their distinctive Aloe leaf
brand logo, now to be seen on beaches around the world.

  Each of the slaves seemed to know perfectly what to do. As I observed,
one of the slaves got up and got another batch of empty boxes from the
side of the factory wall, and brought them back to the conveyor belt.

  `I don't see any Supervisors here.'

  `The last slave on either side of each conveyor belt, Master' and
Donnie pointed them out. `We have them working like every other slave,
but when they have to supervise something or call a slave to order they
do that and then get back to normal work. As you just saw, each slave
knows what to do and does it.'

  As we were speaking six slaves came in, and seeing me, made an
obéisance touching their foreheads to the floor.

  `Master, these have either been training at the gym or putting in an
hour's exercise at the pool,' and again he clapped his hands and the
six went to relieve others at the conveyor belts.

  Those who had been relieved came back towards us, and because I was
there, I presumed, stood there waiting an instruction from Donnie. They
were glancing at him anyway as if they were, standing `at rest'.

  `Master, these slaves have now to go for their gym and training hours
at the Lime Palace. Is that alright?'

  I walked over to the slaves.

  `At display,' Donnie said and the slaves put their hands to the back
of their necks, put their feet a good two feet apart and stuck out their
chests as slaves are trained to do.

  `They look very well, Donnie.'

  `Yes, Master, Iñaki sees to it that they never miss either their
midday or evening training.'

  I smiled to myself at his attempt to give Iñaki the credit.

  `And you don't?'

  `Yes, Master, I do as well. There are now so many at the gym that we
stagger it from early morning, so that all do not converge together. No
one misses the gym or the pool training, or the sex technique classes.'

  I ran my hand over the chest and abdominal muscles of the slave nearest
me. He looked Brazilian. His nipples were dark brown and well-formed,
with small pointed centres. Small wisps of hair were in his armpits, and
only a small bush of pubic hair completed the picture. Like all my
slaves, he was clean shaven and his head of hair was closely cropped.

  I went down the line of slaves and admired their beauty, because each
in his own way was just that. They had been cleaned up, had tattoos
removed, their teeth had been done; they had been exercised to lose
weight or to put on weight; but above all they had been trained to be
obedient. None of them was particularly endowed as regards their manhood,
at least not in their now flaccid states, and by their colouring, they
were clearly from differing nations like so many of my stock of slaves.

  What I did admire however was the fact that they, most of whom were
older than Donnie Timmins, were so docile in the hands of a twenty-three
year old Assistant Supervisor. Donnie had clearly mastered the art of man
management.

  `On your way then,' I said and I saw one of them hesitate a second
and knew that he wanted to say something but could not until he was
ordered to.

  `Yes?'

  The slave was quick on the uptake.

  `Master, thank you for spending time with us.'

  His Arabic was surprisingly clear. As it was after midday, we speak
Arabic in the Palaces, but English in the mornings. I let my hand run
over his chest and belly. His skin was smooth and soft and without
blemish. I tickled his scrotum and he started to become erect. A healthy
slave!

  I pointed to the door and he went after the last of his companions.

  `A French slave, Master. He is has only been here six months, but he
is keen,' Donnie said.

  `Licking up to the Master, what?'

  `No, Master, he is quite nice and a good worker. He worked in a
factory in France, that is why Iñaki and I chose him for the work here.
He gives no trouble at all.'

  That I thought is half the battle of a well-run factory -- ensuring
that the production staff whether free or slave give no trouble at all
under good management. I wondered to myself if the presence of slaves in
the Dahran economy was that cause or the effect of the absence of trade
unions in the Sheikdom.



  Iñaki Ergoitia came running up to where we were and casting a glace at
Donnie said `Sorry, Master, I did not know you were here.'

  `Neither did anyone else, Iñaki. I am just out for a walk. Come walk
with me both of you, I am stretching my legs. Tell me how the production
plant is going here.'

  The former Basque journalist smiled and started to fill me in on a
multitude of details in an overall framework of production schedules and
timetables, delivery planning and time and motion studies both he and
Donnie had carried out. There were no financials as these are done
totally by Gus Jennings at the office in the capital city.

  As I walked I put an arm over both Iñaki's and Donnie's shoulders, as
I think it always important for slaves to see that their Supervisors
enjoy the confidence of the Master, I caught Donnie looking over from
time to time in sheer admiration at Iñaki and his mastery of his brief.

  Most of what Iñaki was telling me I already knew as I had seen Gus's
overall reports each month, but he was putting flesh and sinew on the
bones of dry reports and bringing alive a very profitable venture. Fifty
slaves or slightly over were bringing in two million euro profit each
quarter.

  As we were walking through the gardens, I pulled up short.

  There was a slave tied to a tree, or rather his two wrists were, about
three feet apart and tied to a branch of one of the lime trees in that
section of the gardens

  `What's going on here?' I asked somewhat rhetorically, not
expecting, that is, any answer from anyone.

  I drew close to the slave who seeing me approach with Iñaki and Donnie
seemed to become very uncomfortable with our being there.

  I stood in front of the slave. I did not recognise him. Obviously a
farm worker at the Aloe Palace and one of Yuriy Obov's stable hands.

  `Why are you tied to the tree?'

  `Sorry, Master.'

  Not very logical, but then replies from slaves are not always that.

  `I know you are sorry. Why are you tied to the tree?'

  `I annoyed the head of my kofila and he has gone to find Overseer
Yuriy. Sorry, Master.'

  `Why... no, how did you annoy your head of kofila?'

  `I....I kept tossing pebbles at another slave in the kofila.'

  The slave was trying to moisten his lips which were cracked. An hour in
the Dahran sun without water can do that.

  I gave my handkerchief to Donnie and told him to go back some twenty
yards and wet it in one of the fountains. He was back in no time with a
soggy, dripping handkerchief.

  I wiped the slave's lips, and told him not to try and drink the water
the handkerchief produced, and then I wiped his face.

  `What is your name?'

  `Misha, Master.'

  Ah! Something was ticking in my brain. One of a batch of Russians from
the al-Mera centre, a while back.

  `Are you going to behave if you are released?'

  `Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.'

  I turned to the two beside me and said, `Undo his hands'.

  As I was saying that Yuriy came up the path towards us with Konrad, a
Polish slave whom I knew, in tow.

  Yuriy was all business with a camel-cane in his hand and looking
somewhat annoyed.

  `Boss, you're here.'

  Yuriy has the capacity for stating the obvious.

  `And you are here on business, I see, Yuriy.'

  `Yes, Boss. This is not the first, not the second, but the third time
this Misha has caused trouble,' and he was flicking the cane against his
leg much as a jungle cat flicks its tail before attacking and mauling its
prey.

  `How many strokes of the cane should you get, Misha,' I said, `for
all the trouble you have caused? I am thinking of a number. If yours is
less than that, the number of strokes will be doubled. So how many
strokes?'

  `Strokes...Master?' and he ventured a hesitant and questioning `six,
Master?'

  I was shaking my head all the time back and forth and he rapidly
auctioneered it up to `eight?' with the same questioning hesitancy and
closing his eyes, he said `ten?' and opened them when he saw me nodding
and then grimaced at the thought of his punishment.

  Misha was a simple slave and he stood there with his head down and a
dejected forlorn look about him.

  Yuriy took the initiative at the pause in bargaining and said `Bend
over. You know how well enough,' and Misha, bending at the waist,
grasped the back of his knees.

  A fine pair of lean tanned buttocks were put on display and looking
again at Misha, I could see that his eyes were closed as he awaited his
punishment. As I was standing directly behind him, I raised my hand to
Yuriy and put up three fingers, he shook his head at me as only he can,
and put up four fingers on either hand, the cane sticking up in the air.
I kept up my three and he shook his head in despair and said to the
slave, `Count off,' and dispatched three strokes in rapid fire
succession which Misha barely had time to count, and then when the
strokes stopped, he twisted his head around to see what was the matter.

  `Stand up,' Yuriy said, `the Master has more urgent things to do
than see an annoying slave being punished' and he handed the cane to
Konrad who was half-smiling at me.

  I dismissed Iñaki and Donnie. I had enough facts and figures of Aloe
sap production for one day.

  `Come, Misha, walk with me and show me where you work and what you
do.'

  `Yes, Master,' he said with a big grin which he flashed in the
direction of Yuriy and Konrad as if to say, `Now look at me' and took
up a position at my side.

  I had a long heart-to-heart with Misha as we walked the farmed fields.
He was a simple slave who had worked on road construction in his native
Russia and who missed the snows of the winter in the rodina -- his
motherland.

  `There are various things of which you can be certain, Misha, and I
will not lie to you about them; you will not see snow here in Dahra and
you will not see it again in your former motherland. The first is not
possible here because of the weather and the second is not possible,
because this is Dahra.'

  `Yes, Master, I understand. And Master?'

  `Yes?'

  `I am sorry I annoyed head of kofila Konrad. He is very patient with
me and with everyone.'

  `Sorry is fine, Misha. But have you learned anything today from all of
this?'

  `You mean, not to annoy Konrad any more?'

  `Precisely.'

  `That will be hard, Master. It is so easy to annoy some people.'

  `Do you want to be the head of a kofila?'

  `Me, Master? I have never before been the head of anything.'

  `Let's say, Misha, no more annoying for six months and you'll have
your kofila?'

  `And what about today, Master?'

  `I have already forgotten about today, and I'll tell Konrad to forget
about it as well. No more annoying.'

  `Okay, Master,' and he took my hand and kissed it. `And Master, why
does Overseer Yuriy call you `Boss' and everyone else `Master'? Are
you a...' and he said a word which sound like `khozzayeen'. Do you own
all the slaves here?'

  `Yes, I do. And it's not only Yuriy but some of the other Overseers
call me `Boss'. It's a long story.'

  Misha looked at me and said very slowly, `Master, when I am head of
kofila, I will call you `Boss' to remember this day. And you can tell
me the long story. I like long stories.'

  I thought to myself that Misha ticked all the right category boxes for
happiness for one of my slaves. He was fed and exercised. He had work.
And now he had something to look forward to.

  `You can show me how well you have been trained. On your knees,' I
said as I undid the zip on my trousers.

  Misha took out my manhood and put it in his mouth. His was more of the
enthusiastic and energetic type of sucking rather than the skilled. But
it was sufficient, as after the sight of his nice pair of buttocks and
his lean cheeks working their suction on my penis, I could feel the sap
rising from the depths of my balls and then pumping into his mouth.

  He did not loose a drop. When I started to deflate, he gently licked my
penis to get the last drops off it. His hands which had instinctively
grasped my backside to deepen my penetrations into his mouth dropped
embarrassedly to his sides and his large soulful eyes looked up at me
from his kneeling position on the path.

  `Up you get, Misha. Now go and find Konrad, the head of your kofila,
and say sorry to him.'

  `Yes, Master. Thank you, Master,' a recently punished but now happy
slave, with three clear welts across his backside, trotted down the path
we had come up in search of his head of kofila.

  If only we could so easily solve all such matters and the ownership and
happiness of a slave could be so easily determined in the mind of the
slave!

  The evening had now quickly darkened and I made my way back to the
Lemon Palace and dinner.

  End of Chapter 1

  ===========

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  The Dahran series -- a fictional adventure story about the life and
times of Sir Jonathan Martin -- comprises the following novels to date:

  1. The Changed Life

  2. The Reluctant Retrainer

  3. The Market Offer

  4. The Special Memories

  5. The Dahran Way

  6. The Dahran Rebuttals

  7. The Seventh Desert

  8. The Dahran Sands

  9. The Time Line

  These novels are all serialised on Nifty (Gay -- Authoritarian) and on
YahooGroups http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories