Date: Fri, 30 Jun 2006 17:20:49 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Time Line - Chapter 8 - Gay - Authoritarian [The Dahran series]

The Time Line by Gerry Taylor

This is the eight 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/

===========

  Chapter 8 -- Dogmatism



  I was very surprised to see such a turnout at the service in the chapel
of Rhode House, the school where Caroline had taught and had been Deputy
Head. It was very redbrick in the establishment sense and I smiled to
myself at how much the Sugar Plum Fairy must have changed to conform to
such strictures and starch. The chapel was beautifully bedecked in white
roses and there had to have been over two hundred in the congregation
including some, who from their ages, I guessed were pupils or
past-pupils, and others, easily identifiable as staff in their gowns.

  The school chaplain was polished in his performance and led us through
chapter, verse and hymn. The organ soared, voices rose, silence
descended. An elderly man in his late sixties got up and spoke for some
ten minutes of a Caroline that I did not know, the dedicated teacher of
biology, the reliable administrator, a marvellous deputy headmistress, a
friend always there in his and the entire school's need. The kind words
rolled out and they rolled true, and while they opened with condolences
to her son Richard and her sisters, they concluded again with a reference
to Richard, of whom the school and his late mother was so proud, making
reference to a first in economics at Surrey and now further studies being
undertaken in London.

  I looked sideways at Richard in the seat. He had not mentioned the
distinction in his studies. His eyes were fixed ahead, a little glazed.
His hand was on the pew seat next to mine and I felt his fingers touch
mine at the last mention of Caroline's name.

  As the service concluded, before the coffin was taken out to the
hearse, all were reminded that Caroline wanted everyone who attended the
service to go for lunch at the nearby hotel and that Richard and his
father expected it also.

  That was the first reference to me, as Richard's dad and out of my
peripheral vision, I could see heads jerk up.

  At the church door, Richard stood and asked me to stand beside him.
Caroline had asked to be cremated privately without anyone of the family
being there. It was unusual, but her request was honoured and the hearse
drew away on its own.

  With various comments to those near to us of `See you at the hotel',
we were among the first to leave the church grounds in the car and this
allowed all and sundry to follow. In this way, at the hotel, Richard was
able to stand at the entrance to the dining-room with me by his side and
welcome all with a handshake and a smile, and looking white but composed,
introduced me each time as `My father, Jonathan Martin'.

  The only break in that ritual was for Richard to introduce me to
Caroline's two cold and sanguine sisters, who did not look like Caroline
at all, and to a niece and his happy looking nephew whom he almost tossed
in the air, to the child's great glee.

  I found myself seated between Richard and the headmaster who turned out
to be quite likeable, easy to converse with, and relaxed on range of
topics.

  He appeared to have had a truly genuine regard for Caroline, and more
than once said to me that he would sorely miss her. He was courteous
enough to avoid the topic of how Caroline and I had met and or presumably
separated. In that, he was both considerate and respectful of her memory.

  It all reminded me of a previous meal at my old school after many years
of absence.

  `Do you have a building programme at the school, headmaster?'

  It is the one thing that most schools of any size will have.

  `Yes, indeed, Jonathan, we have just completed a language laboratory
and we are going to tackle the building of a new library as soon as funds
allow.'

  I listened intently, and looked sideways at Richard talking to one of
his aunts.

  `Do you have a ball-park figure for the library?'

  `Oh, my dear Jonathan,' - we had been on first name terms since the
soup - `it's early days yet. But the school architects who did the lab
for us said the library would cost at least five or six million if it is
to be both modern and blend in with the rest of the school buildings.'

  `Headmaster, let me make the school a gift of the library on two
conditions. One that it is called the `Caroline Black Library' and two
that in the entrance there are two sculptures, both in full size, one of
Caroline and the other of Tchaikovsky's Sugar Plum Fairy. I'm sure you
will be able to find a good sculptor. I shall have a Bank draft sent to
you tomorrow for let's say seven million and an agreement. Anything you
have left over put it towards some books.'

  He looked at me a moment and said quietly, `You must have loved her
dearly.'

  `When I look at Richard, headmaster, I know I loved her very much once
upon a time.'

  I don't think he caught my full meaning.

  `And about the library, headmaster, no announcements or anything, just
get on with it, and when it is completed, just let me know. As I say,
I'll send a confirming note to you tomorrow with the Bank draft.'

  The headmaster, where it mattered, was a man of few words, for he just
looked at me and nodded in understanding.

  I wanted to stay some further days after the Monday, but Richard would
have none of it. He said that he had a number of things to do, and two
papers to get in for his Masters. He then surprised me by saying that he
was going to put the house on the market.

  `Already? You don't want to wait a while?' I countered.

  `No, dad. One of the guests at the lunch was the family solicitor who
said everything has been left to me in mum's will. `All very cut and
dried,' he commented. `I think I might like to get a place with a view
down in Canary Wharf which would be near everything.'

  I merely nodded acquiescence.

  `Let me know if I can help or if you need anything.'

  `Can I see you in May when you are back? I'll have the two papers out
of the way by then and I'll have been able to think more clearly.'

  We were sitting side by side in the kitchen-cum-conservatory which
seemed to be our spot for chats.

  `Dad, I'm glad you're here,' and he leaned sideways and put his
head on my shoulder and an arm over my chest.

  `I'm glad I'm here as well.'

  The board meeting at Deckams was uneventful. Gustav was there from
Frankfurt and cautiously suggested an improved situation. Tommy Elford
gave solid news from Tokyo. Dorothy Lemming, the New York partner,
sketched a picture of burgeoning markets. The world was not quite at
military peace, but banking was firm and profitable.

  Throughout the meeting Georgie Deckam looked quite pale. Our esteemed
Chairman, his father, commented on that afterwards to me at the lunch.

  `Nothing to worry about, Charlie, I am working him hard, nothing more
and he has a load on his mind that he has to get rid of soon. Don't
worry.'

  I did not expand on the load that his son was due to get rid of, as it
referred more correctly in the physiological sense to his upcoming
sperm-deposit visit to Harley Street that very afternoon.

  While Georgie Deckam was assuring the future of the house of Deckam in
Harley Street, I met with Ryan Smith who wanted to show me his business
plan for his new electrical contracting venture. He had put me in by name
as a shareholder and I changed that so that it read one of the nominee
accounts at the Bank. There was no need to attract undue attention to my
investment.

  `Looking at these figures, Ryan,' I said to him as he sat across from
me at my hotel, `you'll need more cash in about four to five months
time.'

  He started to explain how that would not be the case and all the why
nots and wherefores.

  `Ryan, you are assuming that everything will go well the first time
round; that everyone will pay you on the due date; that everyone will be
as good to you as you are going to be for them. Business is not like
that. Even with the best of intentions with the clients, things can go
wrong or be delayed at their end. You will need cash, as I say, and when
you do, do not be either ashamed or too proud to ask for it.'

  He nodded reluctantly.

  `Nothing else, Ryan?'

  `I want you to take me, Jonathan. I've had a hard-on since I walked
in.'

  I looked at him and at the pleading in his eyes. It had nothing to do
with the business plan in hand. It had everything to do with power and
its wielding.

  `Strip, take a shower and lube up.'

  I leaned back in the chair as he stood up and he shed his clothes. His
boxers were tenting and once discarded the glinting purple head of his
penis shone in the afternoon light in all its precum wetness.

  I looked at him as he went into the bathroom, his beautiful buttocks
swaying on top of his magnificent legs. Some people are just given a
great body by nature and hard manual work keeps it in shape as was his
case.

  I undressed at my leisure and joined Ryan in the shower, handing him a
sponge to do my back.

  When I had fondled his cock and balls to the point where I risked his
ejaculation, we stepped out of the shower and dried each other off. He
knew where to find the K-Y from previous visits and putting one foot up
on a stool in the bathroom put an ample amount of it on his right hand
middle finger to lube himself well. As I finished drying myself, I saw
him repeat the lubing twice more.

  Ryan knew what he owed me and what he had promised me.

  I put my hand over his shoulder as we walked into the bedroom.

  `Are you comfortable with this?'

  He swallowed and nodded at the same time, and went over to the side of
the bed and knelt up on it, his head and shoulders touching the cover,
his elbows and bum sticking up in the air.

  I moved between his widely splayed knees and touching the smoothness of
the cheeks of buttocks, he shivered slightly at my frottage. I let the
side of my thumb run down his crack not touching the damp pinkness of his
anus after its shower and lubrication.

  He groaned as the nail of my thumb touched the taut skin tissue between
his back-passage and his balls, all down his perineum. His balls were
hanging nicely, but not too loosely in their dark pink scrotum. He
groaned again both at the touch and at the anticipation of what was to
come.

  I was hard and slipping on a condom, I positioned the tip of my cock
over his entrance and let him feel my hardness. I pushed the head of my
cock just slightly against his pucker, and again a little deeper and
deeper again. He was tight but not drum-tight and as the sphincter muscle
recognised the intrusion as not being forced, it relaxed to let the
intruder pass into the awaiting darkness.

  At my fourth push, I felt the full attempted grasp of the ring of the
sphincter muscle, but putting another dollop of lubricant on the condom,
the muscles of his sphincter had nothing firm and dry to grasp against.
And then I was in to the blind cavern beyond the protective ring of flesh
and muscle.

  I let Ryan feel my filling presence inside him. There was no haste, no
rush. It was a time for mutual feelings and pleasure. I pulled out to the
slightest of pop sounds and immediately pushed back in to the same depth
and repeated this four or five times.

  Then, as if some switch were thrown in the neurons controlling the
muscles of the anus, the tight ring of muscle relaxed and I started a
more vigorous ride - the first where I would break in this marvellous
stud on all fours in front of me.

  I could see the pleasure on Ryan's half-turned face on the duvet cover
on the bed. His eyes were closed at some internal joy being felt with his
breathing slightly heavy, but at the same time relaxed.

  I had not really found my stride yet, but this was not about me. This
fuck was about Ryan, his trust in me, his wish to please me either for
some personal reason of me having helped him financially, or because he
felt some deep need as to his own sexual requirements as I opened up a
new door of experience in the world of love.

  I had not found yet his prostate. That would come in due course. If it
happened now it would help him be more relaxed for future fuckings. If it
happened in the future, it would open a panorama of undreamed of pleasure
for this young man.

  I tried to shift my angle of entry trying to aim a little downwards
each time I entered him.

  There are two great things to consider when making love: that is if you
wish in my experience to have staying power. For others, it may well be
different. First, one should do financial calculations or the two times
tables or some such thing. It takes your mind off your pleasure and does
not allow you to go over the top and into orgasm too quickly. Secondly,
one should think of the theory of sex, not of what you are doing. Let you
body do what it does, but your mind should consider matters such as the
erotic nature of licking ears or armpits; or whether it is more noble to
suck a right tit before sucking a left tit; or whether nipping the skin
of the throat or neck with the lips and the lightest use of teeth is more
erotic than the scratching of nails down the skin of the back.

  There are a hundred and one aspects of the theory of sex to consider
which will distract the body as it thrusts away inside a willing partner.

  Ryan Smith gave a distinctive jump and groan. He did not know what had
happened. I did. I had found his prostate, or rather in angling the
thrust of entry I had found his prostrate between eight and nine o'clock
as fighter-pilots used say in war-time, and there is nothing so like war
as a good bout of sex. There is contender and defender. There will be
victor and vanquished. There will be fighter and fighter. There will be
some part or parts of the defence that are weaker than other parts and
can be breached more easily to secure submission.

  I had found one of Ryan's weaknesses, a virgin prostate which had
never before received the attention and adulation of a probing cock.

  By now, it was not I who was thrusting into Ryan. It was Ryan who was
thrusting back against me. Twice the bones of his hips jarred against my
pelvis and pubic bones. His head had come up from the duvet and his fists
were grasping its fabric.

  I watched a rivulet of perspiration form over his coccyx and run drop
by drop towards the small of his back. Ryan was in the throes of sexual
pleasure.

  Two squared is four. Three squared is nine. Four squared is sixteen.

  Ryan was now not just gasping and groaning. He was grunting as his
thrusts against my hardness. I could sense his moment of ecstasy
approached and I knew from his reactions that either entering or
withdrawing or both, my cock was touching that most sensitive of glands
inside him.

  Five squared is twenty five. Six squared is thirty six. Seven squared
is forty nine.

  Ryan did not have either the experience or technique to hold back the
overflowing power of his approaching ecstasy and, like many an amateur in
love-making, though a recent fee-charging professional in this area, he
lay down in the approaching path of his personal tidal wave and let it
wash over him.

  He jerked and jerked again. His groans had become incomprehensible
shouts of joy and pleasure and rapture all wrapped up into one. I felt
him go into spasm beneath me again, and again and again. Enough of
mathematics squared or otherwise. I dropped from the sphere of sexual
theory, looked at the stud impaled on my cock and let the sap of my life
rise and rise and rise. With one all-encompassing thrust, part of me was
in Ryan Smith and part of his sexual pleasure was reciprocated into me.

  I stayed inside Ryan as I deflated. There are those who stay hard after
cumming. I am not to be listed among such fortunate ranks. I belong to
the brigade which deflates, but which does not entirely retreat. Some
have sex and have to be gone either to their own side of the bed or to
the other side of town as fast as their legs will take them. It is as if
there is a fear that the recipient of such a person's sexual attention
might turn into some form of arachnid to devour its mate.

  No, I deflated, little by little by little, until both blood pressure
and the sexual thought of the moment dropped to a mere contact of bodies.
I pulled myself out of Ryan and gave his rump a smack of my hand, as I
flopped down on the bed beside him.

  `Jonathan, what was that?' he gasped still not fully recovered in his
breath from his first on-all-fours fucking.

  `That Ryan, my lad, was sex. Nothing more, and most certainly, nothing
less.'

  In sex just as in some other aspects of life, it is good not to fall
into any moderation. It is a question of giving it an `all or nothing'
to ensure success. That may sound a bit dogmatic, but then a firmly held
dogma or belief never hurt anyone as long as it is full of mutual respect
and based on an all-embracing love.

  Ryan Smith declined to stay for dinner.

  `I have a date with two people I love,' was his most acceptable
excuse.

  `Take your papers with you,' I said indicating his business plan and
other files.

  `You don't need a copy?'

  `Do I need a copy?'

  He smiled, `No, Jonathan, you don't. I'll keep careful records for
you.'

  That in a way summarised Ryan Smith, a good and careful partner who had
initially thought himself totally straight, but who had discovered that
he did like to be dominated in his bisexuality by an authority figure.

  My return to the Lemon Palace on Tuesday was as if I had been away a
month instead of just a mere five days. I felt on my return that there
was a genuine feeling of welcome back from both Overseers and slaves. The
fact that I had to present some thirty two of the slaves with their gold
necklaces brought back from Aspreys maybe had something to do with the
good feeling in the courtyard that first evening. A line of slaves which
had formed immediately after their evening meal to see me had disappeared
by the time the last of the gold necklaces had been conferred on those
who were thirty days out of training, or in the case of one slave, who
was being given his back, after a case of re-training and attitude
adjustment.



  My junior partner at the Bank, Colin Bowman came to me with a problem
which arises from time to time -- a double-booking. He was down for the
following day to visit a client on the northside of the capital city who
was looking for finance for a massive extension to his brick factory. We
call such `site visits'. His site visit was clashing with a Korean
banker who was in town at short notice and who wanted to talk bonds. As
Colin Bowman is our bond man, there was no-contest. We needed somebody to
do the site visit. Georgie Deckam, the only other possible, was also
booked. So here was Colin in my office with a file on the brick factory.

  `Jonathan, it's all in order -- all laid out. Five million over five
years. LIBOR plus two percent. We will have a debenture on the full
factory which is worth three times the loan. It's a quickie of a
visit.'

  On such occasions, you have to look suitably upset and discommoded,
neither of which I was, but with a sigh, I said `leave the file. I'll
bone up on it and do your site-visit tomorrow. You will pay up on the
next embassy function.'

  The following day was not one of my Bank days. In the morning, I had my
slave chauffeur Jess Tollman called to my study.

  `Jess, I need the Rolls in the courtyard at two to go to Dahra Brick
and Tile on the northside. I have to be there at three.'

  `Okay, Boss. No problem. Dahra Brick and Tile. I'll look it up on the
city map.'

  In his crisp grey uniform which was filled out perfectly with his
admirable figure, Jess was opening the door of the Rolls for me on the
dot of three in the portico of Dahra Brick and Tile. For no real reason,
I had handed him the file I had been reviewing as I got into the
limousine, and as we arrived on the premises I said to Jess `come with
me. Hold on to that file, in case I need it.'

  We went through the glass entrance doors towards reception which was a
basic set-up for a manufacturing plant, and before I could introduce
myself, the owner was out of an office to greet me.

  There are a couple tips I always give junior staff about site-visits.
Never just go where you are taken, always ask to see the staff
locker-rooms and toilets as well. The condition of both tells you far
more about a firm than any handout. However, you also have to undergo the
visit to the main manufacturing area, be it of food or pallets, or as in
this case bricks.

  Maybe I had been lucky so far in Dahra that my site-visits had tended
to be to white collar service industries, but nothing prepared me for the
visit to the floor area of the two adjoining brick factories. Each was, I
knew from the file, 500 feet long by 200 feet wide, with what might be
called two long pieces of machinery down its length, where row after row
of slaves were engaging in various aspects of the manufacturing process.

  `We have eight hundred workers here, Sir Jonathan, and a further eight
hundred in the other factory, with fifty Supervisors in each factory,'
the owner commented.

  I was too astonished to reply as I saw male and female slaves chained
to their work benches, all of which seemed to feed into the long pieces
of machinery. I say slaves since they were all naked.

  What struck me forcibly was the silence. The machinery indeed was
making some limited noise as machinery inevitably does. But the silence
was breathtaking. Eight hundred slaves working in total silence.

  Motes of dust were rising in the air towards a roof whose internal
rafters were visible. The first ten feet of side wall had no windows and
there was a two foot gap between the wall and the roof for ventilation.

  As I was looking at all of this, there was a cry of pain from somewhere
down one of the lines. I glanced at the owner who answered my unasked
question.

  `Where a worker falls behind, the worker is immediately punished to
keep up production. We have a daily target for each worker and each
section and each factory,' he elaborated.

  `Punishment?'

  `It is a simple electric shock which is delivered to the worker's
spine or shoulders or genitals depending on which way the worker is
facing. The Supervisor does not lose time by asking the worker to turn
round. Here let me show you.'

  Before I could say anything, the owner had taken what looked for all
the world like a mobile phone from a Supervisor and touched it to the
back of a slave who was working away at his position. The electric shock
was sufficient to make the unsuspecting slave crumble to his knees and
yell out in pain. All within hearing distance seemed to pick up the pace
of production.

  `Interesting,' I commented.

  `It's a cheap but effective variation of the original American cattle
prod which is now made in the Philippines.'

  `Yes, it does seem to encourage the sl...the worker all right.'

  I had noticed that the workers were indeed slaves and this was now
confirmed by the titanium bracelet on the ankle of the worker who had
received the electric shock.

  `Seven in the morning to seven at night. Three fifteen minute breaks
each day to eat, and if they have to relieve themselves, it is while they
eat. The workers are then locked in their huts for the night until the
following morning. They are allowed to rest a full twelve hours.'

  The owner's patter seemed to go on and on. I realised that two things
were bothering me. One was the frozen stare on Jess Tollman's face as he
held the file beside me, his knuckles showing white through the tanned
skin of his hands. The second was the smell of the working place. It
smelled of sweat and excrement and human odours. But most of all it
smelled of fear.

  Thankfully, it had not been the owner's intention to bring me down the
factory floor, but merely across the top of the production lines as we
headed for a side door to bring us into the space between the two
factories. I don't know how I coped with the overpowering smell as we
passed different groups of workers: let alone what it must have been like
in the centre of the factory.

  As we approached the side door, my eyes were drawn to a slave who was
quite literally hanging from the wall in an x shape, his hands and feet
linked by small chains to four hooks.

  `What is happening here?' I enquired.

  `His production level this morning was the worst of all. He is
punished every half an hour until production stops this evening,' and
with that the owner put the electric prod to the slave's shoulder and
the slave convulsed and fainted.

  `I am sure your production methods do achieve their targets, but I
would think that a dead worker will not produce very much for you,' I
said with mild sarcasm to the owner.

  `Most definitely, Sir Jonathan, but it is difficult to kill these
workers with short bursts of electricity, and it works wonders on the
production rates of all the others.'

  What can I say other than the second factory was not better, perhaps
even worse than the first one. Such production methods, I personally
think are counter-productive, but that is just my opinion. However, the
paperwork was in order and I told the owner that his loan was approved
and could be drawn down when he liked. We signed the documents in his
office off the reception area, and I left as soon as it was decently
possible to say I had another appointment.

  Jess had never left my side. I noticed that when we got out to the
portico, he seemed to be breathing in and out very deeply, but no more
than I, to rid lungs and body of the air of the Dahra Brick and Tile
factory. He opened the door of the Rolls for me, handed me the file that
he had been zealously guarding, and we drove off, heading back for the
Lemon Palace.

  I deliberately did not raise the partition between us nor enter into
any conversation with Jess. I left that up to him. Normally, he will ask
if I want to listen to music. He did not speak with his voice but with
his eyes.

  There is a spot on the back of the front seat of the car, which if you
look at it, you can also see the driver's face or rather his eyes in the
rear-view mirror. I spotted Jess looking back at me three or four times.
I knew it would not be long, before he spoke, and I was right. He is one
of the few slaves whom I put up with like Roge Harte and Bob Conrad who
just blurt things out.

  Finally, after about ten minutes driving, the question arrived.

  `Boss, can I ask you a question?'

  `Fire away.'

  `Why, Boss? Why did you give him a loan? You saw how he treats his
slaves.'

  `The conditions for his loan were fine. He was entitled to the loan.
As to how he treats his slaves, that is not for me to comment on. A
Master as you know has complete power over his slaves.'

  `But, Boss, the owner treated them....treated them as if they were less
than animals. The female slaves were not even separated from the males.
You could see that they had not been allowed wash in weeks. I could even
see shit on their legs. They never see daylight except through those high
windows....'

  For once, Jess seemed to be out of words, but not for long.

  `Boss, I never ever dreamed it could be that bad for a slave. Greg
told me what it was like to be owned by his former owner Rashid, and that
was bad, but today...'

  `Jess, each Master is different and that is that. Now what about some
Country and Western?'

  `Yes, Boss, right away.'

  Though the music played softly on the way back to the Palace, it was
clear that the site-visit had a severe impact on Jess, and I noticed it
again, if confirmation were needed, when alighting from the Rolls at the
Palace. Having opened the back door for me, he took my hand and brought
the back of it to his lips, saying `Boss, please don't ever sell any of
us to places like that.'

  I just patted him on the cheek and left him to garage the car.



End of Chapter 8

===========

Contact:

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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