Date: Tue, 15 Jun 2004 23:08:14 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Rebuttals - Chapter 16 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the sixteenth chapter ex twenty two of a novel about present

day slavery and gay sex.

The Dahran trilogies are composed to date of 6 novels:

Trilogy one:

The Changed Life

The Reluctant Retrainer

The Market Offer

Trilogy two:

The Special Memories

The Dahran Way

The Dahran Rebuttals (this novel)

Keywords:

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

This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its
characters are copyright, and private to and reserved by the author. No
reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.

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.

Contact points:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com

w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories

Yahoo! Messenger : gerrytaylor_78

 Chapter 16--The assumption of unwillingness

 I waited a hundred and fifty days. I expected to hear. I did not. This
was an unexpected silence. I would have bet a pound to a penny that I
would have heard. I did not. I woke up that morning and I knew that I
would have to act. It was not obligatory that I had to act on that day.
It was merely my choice to act.

 I had gone on the banking on-line system, before I had left the Bank
that day, and had brought up the specific account in the Grand Caymans.

 In fact, I had reviewed the specific account in the Grand Cayman on the
banking online system at the Bank the previous day as well.

 The original sixty million sterling had been invested and re-invested
under active management for almost half a year and the balance now stood
at just under one hundred and five million euro. Some balance! Not to be
left unattended for too long!

 When I came down for dinner that evening I call my secretary over, who
as usual finds things to do in my study when I am around.

 `Ben?'

 `Yes, Master.'

 `Get me Geoff Masters.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 The day was fine and for January the heat was just nice. There was a
cooling breeze coming strangely enough from the direction of the desert
with its hint of dryness and clean smell of the sands of the interior.

 We now have the best of computer records thanks to Jens Johanssen and I
checked these against a folder I had got from Yuriy Obov, the Farm
Manager of the Aloe Palace. The facts and details matched.

 Ben Trant's office which had originally been beside my study, was now
across the courtyard. His new office gave him more space, indeed space
for his two assistants whose job was essentially to input data into the
computer systems six hours a day. With over seven hundred slaves to keep
track of, Ben Trant was organised as organised could be.

 I had previously had an electric socket installed on the veranda where
I could have a temporary desk when the cool weather, such as today,
allowed. I was deep in thought and was caught up in my own thoughts when
I realised that a slave was coming up the steps of the veranda. The slave
made an obeisance at my feet and I noticed that both my shoes were kissed
and my right foot was placed on the back of his head. I let it rest there
some seconds and then took it off.

 `At rest.'

 Geoff Masters stood at rest, his arms to his back, his feet two feet
apart, and his eyes looking into the mid-distance. I looked up at him.
His fifty two years he wore well. He looked at least five years younger.
His body was trim, but not muscled, lean in a way, not given to fat. He
had required no surgery, having no tattoos removed or circumcision
performed, no sign of body cysts or hernia. Very healthy for his age.
There was a compactness about his body, which I would have said mirrored
his mind.

 `You have been here now for five months and I expected to have heard
from you by now.'

 `Master?'

 `I expected to have heard that you wanted out of this agreement.'

 It was not an agreement, but that was the best word I could come up
with.

 `No, Master. I have had no need to contact you and I do not want out
of the agreement.'

 `You are happy to work the farm lands?'

 `Yes, Master. I have never been happier since my army days.'

 I was silent looking at the monitor screen, looking at the slave's
file, looking now at the slave.

 `I see that you have not taken a permanent buddy...'

 `No, Master'

 `...but that various younger slaves have sought you out.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 `Any reason why, you think?'

 `Master, I think they were looking for a father figure... not a one
night stand or a lover.'

 I looked at Geoff. He was still speaking into the middle distance.

 `You may look at me when we are speaking.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 `I also see from your Manager's reports that you are effectively
organising the work of your kolifa each day.'

 `Master, I merely suggest a thing or two to the other slaves as we
work. I am not organising the work as such.'

 `What has been the most difficult part of your life here so far?'

 `The butt-plugs, Master, without a doubt.'

 `The butt-plugs?'

 `Yes, Master.'

 I let it pass without comment.

 `The money you transferred to me now stands at one hundred and five
million euro--a substantial increase of the sum originally transferred to
me. I am about to give it away. Do you want it back?'

 `No, Master. A slave does not own money of his own. I have not owned
that money since we spoke in London.'

 `Geoff, there is no return of the money beyond this point.'

 `No, Master, I understand that. The money means nothing to me.'

 I opened a box on the table and took out a white fly-swish and handed
it to Geoff Masters.

 `You are now an assistant overseer. Report tomorrow morning to Tommy
Saunders, who heads a special programme for me. He is now your immediate
boss and you report to him.'

 `Yes, Master. Thank you.'

 I thought I saw a gleam of satisfaction or contentment in Geoff
Masters' eyes. I held out my hand and he kissed the back of it, turned
and walked away flicking the swish.

 Yuriy had been right after all. There was something of the military in
the poise and person of Geoff Masters.

 He was one of the few slaves in my ownership of whom I could now truly
and honestly say that they were unwilling to be freemen. We assume so
very often that our freedom is so precious that it is wanted by all men.
It is not. There are some, in a way a few, chosen by the Fates, who are
totally and utterly willing to be slaves, with a sole objective in life
of pleasing their Master.

 The Master primarily fills a void in their lives and not, as is
mistakenly believed, a purpose of lording it over the owned slaves, which
is so very secondary in the real life of slaves. The assumption of
unwillingness in being a slave is not true in all cases. In a majority of
cases, yes, but in all, no.

 Having made Geoff Masters an assistant overseer, my action rang a
warning bell somewhere in the back of my mind.

 `Ben?'

 `Yes, Master.'

 `Get me Tommy Saunders.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 I brought Tommy Saunders' details up on screen and I realised the
mistake that had been there all along. At the moment, he was in charge of
a programme of looking after the families and relations of the slaves,
who had been lifted forcibly. He was spending near on ten million euro a
year, or roughly two month's income from the sales of water to my
neighbours.

 Ben Trant was back from wherever he had been.

 `Tommy is not in his office, Master, I have sent two slaves in two
different directions looking for him.'

 `Fine. Do we have a spare black onyx fly-swish?'

 `Yes, Master. We have three in the safe.'

 `Get me one.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 The beautiful smooth cold of the polished jewelled handle rested in the
palm of my hand. It was the symbol of an overseer, a senior trusted aide.
I had forgotten to give Tommy Saunders even its lower rank, the white
onyx one of an assistant overseer.

 Bob Conrad had come out with a jug of lime-water and was serving me a
glass when Tommy Saunders arrived at a jog, a sheen of perspiration on
his naked body brought on by any exercise in Dahra sun, let alone by a
run or a jog.

 `Sorry, Master, you were looking for me. I was out looking for two
slaves I have to see this afternoon. Their reports are in.'

 `Sit down, Tommy,' and I indicated to him to pull over a chair.

 `Sit, Master?'

 My hand was still in the air. I noticed that Ben Trant was hovering in
the door, pretending for all he was worth that he was reading a document.

 `Ben, are you eavesdropping again?'

 Ben's eyes caught mine and he blushed from ear to ear, his cheeks a
bright red.

 `Yes, Master.'

 Ben Trant cannot and has never told a lie.

 `Ben, if you wish to hear what I am going to say to any one, you
merely have to stand beside me, and I will tell you to go away if that is
what I want.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 `Are you that keen to hear what I have to say to Tommy Saunders?'

 Both Tommy and I were now looking at Ben, who had gone from one shade
of red to the next and back again.

 `Yes, Master, only that I may be then better able to serve you.
Information is strength.'

 `No, Ben, information is power. I think you like power, or being
beside powerful people.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 Tommy Saunders was now smiling at Ben's honest answers and indeed, I
found them a trifle amusing myself. Ignoring him, I turned to Tommy.

 `My apologies, Tommy, we have an official eavesdropper to hand,' and
I gave Ben's backside a firm slap and I let my hand rest on his warm
flesh.

 I pushed the black onyx fly-swish across the table to him.

 `This is long overdue. I should have given you a white one long ago
and it slipped my mind.'

 Without even looking, I gave Ben's backside another firm slap, as if
to say `it was your fault for not reminding me. Some secretary you are
at times.'

 Tommy looked at the black fly-swish and took it in his hand.

 `Master, it is beautiful. It is really beautiful.'

 `Use it well, Tommy. Use it well. I have given you an assistant from
tomorrow morning, Geoff Masters. Train him in well. I think you and he
will work well together.'

 `He's the English slave with the greyish hair, Master, is he not?'

 While my slaves do not have long hair, the crew cut does reveal the
true colour.

 `Any problem with that?'

 `No, Master. Am I allowed to see his file?'

 `You will have a new access code on the computer system, as soon as
Ben here lets Jens Johanssen know. His full file is there. He is an
interesting man, to say the least. And I want you to increase the yearly
spend by five more million.'

 Tommy just looked at me and said, `Yes, Master, no problem. With the
new arrivals, we are coming close to the present limit.'

 `Memo to Jens, eh Ben?'

 `Immediately, Master.'

 There are months on end when nothing really happens but humdrum life
and then, in one single week, life comes alive.

 Each of the Palaces is self-sustaining on food. While the crops grown
on the three Palace farms are not identical, the market lorries are full
every morning. Stan, my Property Manager, who helped organise the first
early morning deliveries for the capital city's market, saw his crews
grow from a couple of slaves poached from other overseers, to five crews,
two at each of the Lime and Aloe Palaces and one at the Lemon Palace,
where cultivation was not yet in top gear.

 Björn, the leader of the Swedish slaves, as I always thought of him,
was put in charge with another Swede in having two crews of five rotating
each week for the loading of the deliveries at the Aloe Palace. It was
more convenient that they do it, as they were now living in the Palace
with their Master, Gustav Ahlson.

 Gustav would have argued that point with me as he did not regard
himself as the true owner of his compatriots and who while they worked
very hard on the Palace farm, never sought anything for themselves. In
some senses, they were strange. They voted apparently on everything with
some type of multiple transfer system understood by themselves alone,
according to Gustav, from the type of background music they wanted in the
Palace in the evenings to the new Head of Household --a slave called
Olaf, who had only come to my attention as the slave who put in the solar
panels at Gustav's old home.

 At the Lemon Palace, it was Jerzy, Stan's assistant, who with his five
Dahran Arabs made up one crew. But what surprised me when Stan told me of
it, was that the other crew was headed by none other than Abdul ben-Azri,
the beautiful but mentally handicapped slave, who had been given to me by
his father and was being assisted by four Chechens.

 `I thought the Chechens had a bad reputation for work?'

 `Not with Abdul, Boss. He could charm the crickets out of the
palm-trees with his smile' Stan replied. `And he works twice as hard as
any of us, or them. I think he just loves doing a simple job that he
knows he can do and do well.'

 I was delighted to hear that because, although Abdul is mentally
challenged, in his tackle he is anything but. With a schlong on him which
was used to define the concept, Abdul has to be seen to be believed.

 `I hope that the Chechens are not taking advantage of him, Stan.'

 `No, Boss, quite the contrary. They seem to regard him as a kid
brother, who just tells them what to do. I don't think that he knows
that he is giving orders. He just says things like `now let's load the
next batch of boxes' and he is the first to start and the last to
finish. The drivers all love him as well. You can see that in the way
they treat him every morning.'

 `And at the Lemon Palace?'

 `The two Turks head a crew alternate days. They really work hard. They
seem to think that you are going to half-geld them for some reason? Are
you, Boss?'

 `Not me, Stan, but Komil may decide to. That is what I have told them
if they don't work hard. A little fear for some slaves is a good
thing.'

 Stan looked at me and smiled.

 `So how are the accounts for the three Palaces going, Stan?

 `We're paying for all the new planting, all the upkeep of the
Palaces, all capital and current costs and still we are clearing over a
million euro a month.'

 `See what else can be done about sporting facilities for the slaves. I
want them lean and well-worked and to achieve that, they have to be well
exercised in the gym and the pool and with this football of theirs, which
seem to be becoming all the rage in the Lemon Palace.'

 `You noticed the new type of solar panels, Boss? And now we have the
latest in irrigation systems, Dumi has seen to that. Can I make a
suggestion, Boss?'

 I raised an eyebrow in questioning mode.

 `Sand-buggies for the Heads of Household and the Stables Managers.
That would really be a status symbol for them.'

 Stan was looking over my right shoulder at something which was
focussing his vision. It was as if he knew he was on thin ice.

 `Status symbol, eh?'

 `Definitely.'

 `Whose idea?'

 `Mine, Boss....well with a little push from Wik. He thinks the
sand-buggies are very nifty. That's the word he uses.'

 `Nifty status symbol, eh?'

 I could not help but start to laugh and Stan soon joined in. I poured
him a glass of the limejuice.

 `Well, I suppose, Stan, you had better get sand-buggies. Next you'll
be asking for traffic lights!'

 `Maybe next year, Boss,' he said, with a laugh.

 Aziz's cruise around the Indian Ocean must have produced no true
emergencies, as the Bursar had failed to contact me. I had to have Faisal
collect Aziz at the airport coming on the shuttle down from Bahrain. Jess
Tollman's ankle bracelet would have set off the airport alarm system.

 According to Faisal, when he let me know that he was back, Aziz's
return was like the arrival of a head of state. Aziz's slaves were lined
up in seniority to greet him on his return. Each stepped forward to greet
him in the small courtyard in front of his residence, kissing his hand
and stepping back in line.

 `Aziz has very loyal slaves, Faisal.'

 `Yes, Sir Jonathan, very loyal and devoted slaves. I got the
impression that they really and truly missed him in the past month.'

 With the increase in slave numbers in the various Palaces and in line
with my policy that all should speak English in the morning--for which we
now had four extra teachers under Ross Wells--and Arabic in the evenings,
we now had a dearth of teachers for the latter.

 Hassan Dufhar had gone to Aziz's household and while some of the
slaves coming into my Palaces might have had a smattering of English, few
if any ever had Arabic. So, I made Sunar Hussein, the Iraqi engineer, the
effective head of the Arabic teachers and ordered him to produce me a
teaching programme to address the shortfalls, which had become obvious.

 It only took him a day to come back to me with a hand-written
programme, spread over the hottest hours of the day from eleven to three
each day. His handwriting was firm and elegant, the hand of a
draughtsman. His two teachers, Nassr, Walid and himself, were totally
inadequate for the number and he had indicated that he needed at least
four other teachers and if possible five.

 I let the two slave-dealers at al-Qatim and al-Mera know of my needs,
identical to the request of two and a half years previously. I could
hardly credit it that time had passed so quickly. I said that I would
meet them for a private viewing on that Thursday at al-Qatim at two, and
at al-Mera at four.

 Both dealers said that they would check their databases, as they did
not think they had anything other than workers and some specials in at
present. I said whatever and I knew that they dared not suggest that the
required teachers be `lifted.'

 On the Thursday, Faisal, my driver and a model of punctuality, if ever
there was one, had me arrive at the al-Qatim auction-rooms at two minutes
to two, despite some rather heavy weather from traffic on the coast road.

 I was surprised to see the two slave dealers there and not just Ahmed
al-Atti, the owner of the al-Qatim slave centre. Mustafa ben-Azri, his
counterpart at al-Mera, apologised and said they had thought a joint
viewing might be best for me. I had long suspected that they consulted
each other, when special requests were put in, so I thanked them for
their thoughtfulness. It had in fact, saved me an hour's journey down to
the second port.

 `So, Ahmed, what have you today? I need four good Arabic teachers. The
others you sold to me over two years ago were excellent and I hope you
have some more equally as good.'

 `This way, Sir Jonathan,' and he led the way into the viewing area.
There were eight slaves at `display' when we went in, seven who looked
Middle Eastern and one Caucasian.

 `These slaves are all in the ownership of other owners at present. We
had no really suitable ones among our present stocks.'

 From that statement, I was able to deduce that they definitely did keep
a record of which slave was sold to whom.

 Normally, when buying a slave I would look first at the slave, checking
against the file, as it went along. Here, it was a question of checking
the file first and then looking at the slaves. There was one who had done
part of a training course in education, but had not gotten a diploma. Two
of the others had assisted teachers in primary schools. Two had
university degrees in agriculture and in marketing.

 The Caucasian was actually American--a Mike Plummer--and had taught
mathematics at various international schools in the Middle East, spoke
English obviously, but more importantly spoke perfect Arabic according to
the file. He had been enslaved, when he had killed a woman in a
road-death while under the influence. He had chosen slavedom over being
beheaded and had been given to the widower's family. The other two had
no formal qualifications but looked after their Masters' children. I had
the impression that they had been added as `fillers' to complete a
line-up, so to speak.

 When previously I had chosen teachers, it had been somewhat blindly.
Today, I had come prepared and took out of my jacket pocket two pages of
a business magazine written in Arabic.

 `Ahmed could you have ten copies of these made and have the slaves
stand at `rest.''

 Ahmed immediately gave the instruction and the slaves placed their
hands behind their backs and placed their feet two feet apart and Ahmed
handed the sheets to an assistant to be photocopied.

 If first impressions are lasting, I should have walked out of the
auction-room there and then. The slaves on offer were no physical
specimens of note. They looked thin and haggard. One was clearly abused,
as the whip marks on his body, clearly visible at ten paces, would
attest. If anything the two children minders seemed to be the best
looking from a purely physical point of view.

 Also noticeable were the amount of nose rings, four in all, nipple
rings either single or double on five of the slaves and on the American,
there was a scrotum stretcher of about four inches in length and balls
separator of equal length. But what caught my eye and I had not seen such
an item before, was what could be best described as plastic tubing, which
encased his penis. The tubing went from the corona of his cock head, back
all the way to the scrotum stretcher and must have been some six inches
in length. I was looking at it, half in puzzlement and half in wonder, as
to its purpose and I realised that the cock head had to have been pulled
through the tubing--and once on there was no manual way of getting it
off. It occurred to me that this must actually affect the slave's
ability to piss. I noticed also, from the angle I was at, that almost all
of the slaves had some form of tattoo or other.

 Ahmed's assistant was back and I instructed him to give a copy of the
article to each of the slaves.

 `I am going to have each of you read the two sheets and then I am
going to ask you a question or two about what you will have read.'

 I indicated the first slave to start reading. The sheets would not have
contained more than four hundred words and the print was large. He read
well, but not loudly or confidently, and kept looking at me as if
something were wrong.

 Each of the other slaves did likewise. There were various Middle
Eastern accents. The American was fifth and I must say that he read very
well, as if to a large audience. His accent was Saudi, as if his years of
work there had most influenced his learning of the language.

 The last two were the child minders, as I was thinking of them in my
mind. Although they had heard the text read six and seven times
respectively, they were both very nervous. The hands of the first shook
so much that I thought he was about to drop his sheets and the other had
very bad eye-sight that as he had to bring the pages right up to this
eyes to read.

 `Do you know why you are here?' I asked of all.

 I was looking at the nearest slave to me and he replied, `No,
Master,' for himself, but in a way for all.

 `In the short article you have just read, there are four mistakes.
Take a look at the article again and tell me if you can see them.'

 The only sound in the viewing room was the sound of the whoosh of the
air-conditioning.

 One of the slaves put up a hand, as if in class.

 `Yes, what do you see?'

 The slave nervously pointed out the wrong use of a verb and said the
one that he would have used.

 `Anything else?'

 He shook his head.

 The slave with the bad eyesight put up a hand, squinted at me and said,
`Master, the second paragraph would be better in two halves, as it has
two separate ideas.'

 `What else?'

 The American slave put up his hand and I said, `Yes?'

 `Master, the article uses abbreviations without first saying the
correct full name and then the abbreviations and also in the second last
line, it is not clear which company is being referred to, the first one
or the second in the article.'

 `Anything else?'

 There was nothing else by way of suggestion.

 I said, `Look at the first two lines. The verbs are wrong. The first
should be plural and the second singular. They should be the other way
round.'

 What I said was not true. The sentences were correct. The verbs
correct.

 There was a silence in the room as various pairs of eyes looked at me.
Finally, one of the slaves who had spoken, put up a hand.

 `Yes?'

 `Master, with respect I think...I think the sentence is correct. That
is, Master, if I have understood it.'

 I looked at him. His legs were shaking.

 I turned to Ahmed and said, `Get me a camel-cane. I do not like slaves
who contradict me.'

 His assistant disappeared in search of my request. I kept my eyes on
the slave whose eyes were now wide open and the sheets of paper in his
hand were shaking visibly.

 The American slave and another of the slaves almost at the same time
put up their hands and I looked at the American.

 `Master, I think the sentence is correct as it is. I...I...', he seemed
to loose courage and looked at the ground.

 I looked at the other slave who had put up his hand.

 `Master, it is what I would say and write.'

 The assistant had returned with the camel-cane, a four-foot one and
handed it to me.

 `Who else disagrees with me and says the sentence is correct?'

 The slave with the bad eyesight put up his hand and said, `Master, if
you please,' and read out the sentence as I had stated it should be by
switching the verbs. It sounded wrong.

 `Master, it sounds wrong this way. Maybe there was something before
that we have not read. But as the sentence stands, it is correct.'

 I was swishing the camel-cane much as an angry lion its tail.

 `So you others. Whose side do you take, a Master's, or a slave's?'

 One of the slaves put up his hand and said, `Master, with the greatest
respect, it is not a question of sides. It is a question of grammar. I
must agree with the others on the point of grammar.'

 Two others said likewise. The only one who had not agreed was the other
of the child minders.

 `So, you agree with me, then?' I said to him.

 `Yes, Master, I agree with you.'

 `Why?'

 `Master, because you are a Master and a Master is always right, even
in a matter of grammar,' and he looked quickly away from me.

 `So, if you were asked to teach Arabic, you would teach bad grammar?'

 `No, Master, I would teach what the Master would tell me to teach.
Nothing more. Nothing less.'

 The slave's attitude was perfect as that of a slave, but rather
lacking as a teacher's and even less as a grammarian.

 I handed the camel-cane back to the assistant and said to the assembled
slaves.

 `I am looking for an Arabic teacher or two. It seems we have here one
or two with knowledge of the language and, at least, one with knowledge
of politics,' I said looking specifically at the last slave who had
spoken to me.

 `I am known as the Retrainer. It will be interesting to see how much
retraining is going to be required,' and I walked out of the viewing
area toward Ahmed al-Atti's office. In the viewing area, I felt as if I
had left a chill in the air.

 `Gentlemen, your opinion?' I said to the two slave-dealers.

 `I think you have certain possibilities with two or three of them, Sir
Jonathan,' Mustafa replied carefully.

 `How many of them have been found through each of you?'

 It was a democratic four and four slaves from each database.

 `What are the owners expecting for each?' I asked. The average price
was twenty five thousand euro for the slaves and twenty two thousand for
each of the carers as I was categorising them. The only exception was
Mike Plummer, the American, whose owner was looking for thirty five
thousand euro.

 `Why so much in the case of the American?'

Mustafa was silent for a moment.

 `This, Sir Jonathan, is the minimum price he gave me reluctantly. He
really does not want to sell the slave. He enjoys torturing him too much,
as you can see from the number of rings and attachments he has on the
slave and I understand that he is beaten every week.'

 `He killed the owner's wife in a car accident?'

 `Yes, and now fate has put him in the owner's hands.'

 `His owner must have loved his wife very dearly.'

 `Maybe yes, maybe no, Sir Jonathan. But the man who is quite powerful
has four wives, having taken a fourth wife after the accident. I think he
just likes tormenting the slave.'

 `And your fees in this matter?'

 `Shall we say 20% finder's fee, Sir Jonathan?'

 `I was thinking more on the lines of 10%.'

 `15% for you, Sir Jonathan, as you are such a good customer and
client.'

 `Done.'

 `Which of the slaves do you wish?'

 `I'll take all of them.'

 There was a shocked silence.

 `All of them? We thought, you wanted perhaps three or four as the last
time. This is a pleasure, Sir Jonathan.'

 `Those I don't need for language, I can have work on the farms. Do
you want one or two cheques?'

 Being good businessmen, they asked for two cheques and threw in the
delivery of the slaves free for that evening. For just under a quarter of
a million euro, I had solved my language teaching problem.

 I asked for the slaves to be delivered between seven and eight, when I
knew all my slaves would be eating in the courtyard of the Lime Palace.

 `Gentlemen, would you do me the honour of dining with me at the Lime
Palace, some evening next week. Could I suggest Saturday?'

 The two slave-dealers were beside themselves with delight.

 I had Aziz line up some sixteen buddies to prepare for the new
arrivals. The word soon got out that a delivery was due. Slaves can be
like children at times and have a simplicity in blabbering out good news,
like the arrival of Christmas, or birthdays, or such. New arrivals always
cause a stir and the possibility of more than a couple of new slaves,
even more so.

 I had Greg Logan standing by with bolt cutters and I explained the
penis sheath contraption on one of the slaves and he came out first with
a table and then a selection of cutting tools which he placed on public
display.

 It was as if the circus were coming to town. Never had slaves lined up
so orderly for their soup and slave biscuits. Never had there been such a
quiet hush of expectancy.

 The queues for soup were still in place, when the blue Transit van drew
up into the courtyard. Aziz was to hand and took delivery of the new
slaves, who all looked like fish out of water, fearful and disoriented.
They were all wearing a waist harness with their wrists cuffed to the
encircling belt.

 Aziz handed the harness key to Yedo and told him to remove the
handcuffs from the slaves, which was done immediately.

 Greg Logan and Jess Tollman, the two official retrainers, took the
first of the slaves by his arms and lay him on his back on the table.
Jess held the slave's head still with a hand over each of the slave's
ears and in one quick snip, which echoed around the courtyard, the
slave's nose-ring was off, as indeed was also a nipple ring.

 Each of the slaves was dealt with in a similar fashion and I observed
from the veranda, where I was eating with the medical team.

 `Sorry, for giving you all more work tomorrow morning' I said to
Nacho Cuesta, our ophthalmologist, Cal Thorson, the dentist and Yves
Fournier, the Palace's surgeon and Doctor.

 `Medical work is never done,' Nacho quipped.

 `Talking of which, gentlemen, I have given instructions that each of
you get a New Year bonus of one hundred thousand euro.'

 `Jonathan, thank you indeed. But why?' Nacho asked. `You do pay us
rather well.'

 `Well, I was actually thinking of poor Cal here now that he has four
children to support back in the US.'

 Cal Thorson was constantly the butt of our jokes. He had a strange, but
apparently very happy marriage situation, where he would return to his US
home each August, conceive a child with his wife and then return to Dahra
to continue his work. His wife's brother--an invalid serviceman--was an
adored surrogate father to his children. It worked for him. But as, I
say, it was very strange.

 `No, seriously. I appreciate your work. Our workers here, slaves
though they may be in Dahra, are hale and hearty. They have the most
marvellous eye and dental care. Yves, you are working marvels on all
aspects of protection and cure. What more can I ask for?'

 `Well, talking of asking for things, Jonathan. You had mentioned an
assistant for me. I think I may have found the person. A thirty-year old
Brazilian Doctor and surgeon.'

 `How did you find him?'

 `I put an ad on an internet mailing list for gay Doctors, with a blind
mailbox asking for CVs and stating the salary required for a three year
contract in a warm climate.'

 `And?'

 `I got fifteen replies. Four were from women, which I thought best to
ignore given our circumstances here.'

 `That was not necessary, Yves.'

 `Maybe yes, maybe no, but as there were two others who were better
qualified I concentrated on these two with another two as fallbacks.'

 `Well, are you sure this is the person you want and what salary are
you offering?'

 `I'm talking up references at the moment, Jonathan. And salary? Half
our own salary, if that is okay with you?,' he said indicating his two
colleagues with a nod of his head.

 `You can go up to two thirds, if that is what is needed, Yves, to get
the right person. Man or woman. Don't rule out the women, just because
they are women. Some of the slaves actually might get more than a kick
from having a lady doctor. On the other hand, come to think of it, our
place would not be of much interest to a gay woman. But I'll leave it up
to you.'

 With that there was a bit of a commotion in the courtyard as the eight
new slaves were led across by their handlers having been showered, shit,
given an enema and had their haircut in the style of the Palace, together
with their first application of the depilatory cream. They looked an
improved lot--no doubt about it.

 I went down to the bottom of the steps, where the eight slaves were at
`rest.' As I approached the eight dropped to their knees, clearly
primed by Greg or Jess and made obeisance touching their foreheads to the
ground. I ordered them to stand again `at rest'.

 `Welcome to the Lime Palace, your new home. You five are going to
teach Arabic to my slaves. You,' I said speaking to the American, Mike
Plummer, `will be teaching English and you two,' I said addressing the
two carers, `I have to find something for you two to do.'

 `Yes, Master,' echoed a number of times.

 I thought that maybe the `carers' could help Randy in the hospital
ward, as it would be useful to have more slaves than one there who are
permanently on the job and learn something about first aid and basic
medicine.

 I went over to Mike Plummer and raised his genitals in my hands. They
looked curiously distorted, the sack of the scrotum too long and the
penis shaft too unnaturally narrow. The slave went up on his toes, when I
touched him there.

 `Painful?'

 `Yes, Master, a little. I think the blood is now circulating again
more freely and it is very sensitive.'

 I let his balls fall gently in their elongated sack and spoke again to
all the new slaves.

 `Tomorrow morning, you will see our dentist, our eye specialist and
our doctor. When you are ready for work you will take up your new duties.
You have two minders each for a month, who will tell you how to behave in
the Palace. Any questions you have to ask, ask them of your minders. Have
you eaten this evening?'

 They had not, so they were led away for their first meal at the Lime
Palace and, according to their minders, they each had two bowls of soup,
and three slave biscuits each and almost two litres of water. It was a
good start, to what I hoped would be a good slave relationship with their
new Master.

 The one thing I did not see was an unwillingness to start work with a
new Master, even one with the reputation as the Retrainer.

 I had told the minders not to bring back the new slaves to me, until
each had been fully cleared by the three medical staff.

 At dinner one evening almost a week later, Yves Fournier mentioned the
condition of Mike Plummer's genitals. He did a tidying up of the
scrotum, which was stretched beyond recognition and practical use for
supporting the slave's gonads. According to the good Doctor, the slave
now had a tight set of balls right up against his body and he had learned
to piss normally again.

 `To piss again?' I said incredulously.

 `The tubing, which was on his penis shaft for the last five years was
so narrow tight that the slave was not able to piss naturally, until a
considerable amount of urine had built up in the bladder and effectively
forced its way out. I calculate, Jonathan, that the slave now has a
distended bladder twice the size of a normal one, to say nothing of
kidney problems.'

 Nacho Cuesta, my eye surgeon, stated that one of the slaves, whose name
I did not yet recognise had such bad ripened cataracts--now operated on
and removed--that he had been ninety per cent blind. I realised that he
was talking of the second carer who would be out of circulation for a
number of days in the hospital ward.

 Six of the others had required some form of eye-treatment or other.

 For some reason, we all looked across at the dentist, Cal Thorson who
had been very quiet and was just eating his dinner, listening to our
chat.

 `Gentlemen, we are eating. I don't want to put you off your food, but
none of those slaves had seen a dentist in years, but all are now fine.
Eight new sets of Thorson teeth, capped and evened and awaiting
Hollywood, Bollywood or the silver screen.'

 `At least all their bloods are clear, though one had syphilis at some
stage and was treated for it. He now is safe,' Yves commented.

 `Yves, please,' Cal said, `we're still on the main course. Let me
change the topic. What about your new assistant?'

 `The references are good. I just have to interview him. I might go to
Paris. There is a direct flight from São Paulo, where he is based, to
Paris and I can get to Paris any day and even back the same day, if
necessary.'

 `Yves,' I said, `why not invite him here. Have a preliminary
interview in the capital city and if he is suitable, bring him here to
meet your interview panel,' and I indicated his two colleagues.

 `You don't want to see him?'

 `Not at all. It's you who will have to work with him. What this
guy's name anyway?'

 `Dr. Miraldo Coelho.'

 In one sense, it was a pleasure to inspect my new purchases a fortnight
after their purchase. Nacho Cuesta had done his eye surgery. The second
carer still had two black eyes after the removal of his cataracts. One of
the teachers had been operated on for a hernia. All had their tattoos
removed and there was Mike Plummer. Quite apart from all his genital
related problems, when Yves Fournier had examined him fully, he found
that his anus was extremely distended. He had been forced to have a large
butt-plug inserted in his rectum at all times. Five years is a long time
to wear a butt-plug.

 Mike Plummer was the last of the line, when I inspected them.

 `I see you have lost a few rings, Mike and a tattoo.'

 I touched the septum of his nose.

 `The Doctor tells me that this hole will seal in about thirty days. If
it doesn't, then Dr. Fournier will do a quick operation on it and
you'll be as right as rain. He has done it any number of times.'

 `Thank you, Master,' was the very quiet reply. He had not moved, when
I touched his nose and lips.

 `And how are your balls now?'

 It can appear at times that the questions you ask a slave are strange,
but there is no shame or immodesty implied.

 `The Doctor has done a great operation, Master. I can cup both my
balls again with one hand, which I wasn't able to do. And I am beginning
to be able to piss normally again.'

 `Have you been able to jack off?'

 There was a slight hesitation.

 `No, Master, not yet. It is too sore still.'

 `Come, let us walk.'

 We headed towards the gardens.

 `When did you actually last ejaculate?'

 `It was over five years ago, Master,' and he looked towards the
ground.

 `There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. I don't think you would
have been able to have a wet dream with that tubing on your cock shaft.'

 The slave did not reply. I had spoken to Yves about Mike Plummer and he
had said to me that what the slave needed, but what did not exist in
medicine was physiotherapy for his cock. The muscles of the shaft had to
be retrained to contract and relax again, as they had lost that power.

 `You are going to get some physiotherapy to help you.'

 `Physiotherapy, Master?'

 `Yes, a special type twice a day. You know that every slave has to
come twice a day. It makes every slave very happy to be sucked off, or to
be jacked off by a buddy. You do not do it to yourself.'

 `Yes, Master. We have been told and the others do it already.'

 We waited for an automatic water-spray to cross the path before
continuing on. There was the most delightful smell of rosemary and
lavender amongst others rising on the moist area. I heard the slave
coughing or clearing his throat.

 `What?'

 `I wanted to ask a question, Master and I don't know how.'

 I realised that he was well trained, if forcibly so, in that regard.

 `Just ask. I may not have the answer.'

 `If I can't ejaculate, Master, are you going to sell me again as
useless?' and to my astonishment, he burst into tears and went on his
knees at my feet.

 I remember thinking, as I saw him kneeling on the damp gravel of the
path between the bed, that gravel is best for walking on but not for
kneeling.

 `Mike, get up. Compose yourself.'

 The slave got up slowly and wiped his face with the heel of a hand.

 `I have barely just bought you. Why should I sell you? I have very,
very rarely sold a slave. You do not need balls that ejaculate to teach
English, and that is why you are here. If your balls do work fine, there
will be no reason why you should not be shooting like a trooper very
soon.'

 `Master, I'm afraid that I am going to wake up?'

 `Wake up? What are you talking about, Mike?'

 `I think, I am in a dream. This place is heaven. I am walking in a
garden. I am eating food everyday. I am sleeping in a bed. I have dreamed
I have seen a doctor and a dentist and an optician.'

 `All of this is real, Mike. It is all real. Do you want me to pinch
you?'

 He shook his head with a half-smile.

 `Master, I never wanted to be a slave. But here, I want to be your
slave. What I have been through was hell. I think I am in heaven and I
just want to serve you, so that the dream will continue.'

 `Again, Mike, it is no dream and just wait until you are before your
first class of students, who don't have a practical word of English,
before you call here heaven. But as I say, you will have some
physiotherapy for that cock of yours. Okay?'

 `Yes, Master, okay.'

 The physiotherapy was of my own invention. The two Slovaks, whom I had
purchased at an exorbitant price, worked as water-guys keeping the slaves
cool during the workday. As we did not work from eleven to three, the hot
hours as we call them, the Slovaks took English and Arabic lessons for
those hours.

 For the following month, I cut their languages classes in half and had
them give physiotherapy to Mike Plummer for the hour before midday and
from two to three each day. It involved nothing more and nothing less
than one of the Slovaks sucking and licking Mike's cock for an hour,
while the other rimmed his distended butt-hole. For the first hour, Mike
would be on his hands and knees with one Slovak under him and the other
between his legs behind.

 For the second hour in the afternoon, the Slovaks would have him on his
back, as one sixty-nined him and the other licked his perineum and
reconstructed scrotum.

 I had told the Slovaks that they were not to try and make Mike Plummer
cum, but rather to get him to relax under the ministrations of their
tongues and mouths, in particular on the shaft of his cock.

 The two Slovaks were utterly delighted to have a specific task given to
them by the Master and went about it with care and with gusto. I told
Denny and Danny, the Slovak twins, to report to me, if anything happened
of note. I heard nothing for an entire week and then I saw the two of
them grinning, as they stood one evening in the line up of slaves waiting
to talk to me after dinner.

 `Master, this morning we gave him his first hard-on. We didn't mean
to. It just happened very suddenly and we stopped. Then this afternoon
when we started again, after about ten minutes, Mike grabbed me around
the waist.'

 Denny was speaking, `when I was sixty-nining him, he shot into my
mouth. But, Master, the cum was almost solid. It was not like usual cum.
You know, liquid. This was solid cum. And then he shot again and again
and again. The last times were all liquid alright.'

 I had heard of that condition before in male-virgins, or those who were
deeply celibate, where in the absence of nocturnal emissions--wet
dreams--the semen could become semi-solid.

 `Well done, you two. Well done! This is great news. What else have you
two done to Mike to get him to relax?'

 If I knew these two, they would be impishly creative.

 They looked at each other.

 `Well, Master, it is not us, really,' Danny said. `It's just the
day before yesterday, I was under Mike and licking away, you know, when
all of a sudden I felt his tongue licking my balls and then he was
sucking my cock and for every suck I gave him, he gave me another. He
sucks very gently, Master.'

 I gave each of them a rub on their short blond hair.

 `Off you go, both of you and keep doing this, until I tell you to
stop.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 `Yes, Master.'

 I thought it was a good result from a new form of physiotherapy, at
least, one not yet in the books.


End of Chapter 16

To be continued . . .