Date: Sat, 10 Apr 2004 13:26:29 +0100 From: Gerry Taylor Subject: The Dahran Rebuttals - Chapter 4 - Gay - Authoritarian This is the fourth chapter ex twenty two of a novel --The Dahran Rebuttals - 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 4--The assumption of adaptation The assumption of adaptation would have us believe and accept two contradicting notions. The first idea suggests that people, and therefore slaves, can adapt to life and living conditions. The second notion is that they can't. Neither assumption is absolute, but relative to the players and to the circumstances. My nephew, Jack Tuttle and his wife, Fiona, were living still at the Aloe Palace when their first child was born. They had not yet got around to cashing in my wedding voucher for a residence of their choice in Dahra. Jack was learning the art and science of banking working with me at Deckams--the Bank where I work in Dahra and of which I am a Partner. Fiona was keeping palace for the moment and heavily pregnant with their first child. She had arrived in Dahra, a Scottish girl of some twenty years, to a setting of both the modern world with its electronics and of the darker middle ages with its slavery. I had wrongly assumed, when Jack had first mentioned to me on a plane that he wished to tell his future wife about life in Dahra, that Fiona would not be able to handle it. But handled it she had and better than I would have ever credited her. All human beings adapt to their environment. The environment moulds us more than we mould or move it. Dahra had shocked me when I had first been given a slave. Maybe my shock was because I was older and wiser in the ways of the world. Fiona Tuttle's shock was not as evident, but obviously just as felt, when she had been told of slavery in Dahra. She had adapted well and how she had adapted! Quite apart from buying Scottish slaves for herself and using those household and farm slaves of mine, who were in the Aloe Palace for their normal work, Fiona had won the hearts of whomsoever she had come in contact with which included two of Jack's slaves, Beno and Vedel Vesh--two Romanian gypsies--in their mid-twenties. She had even adapted to the extent of having the slaves dispense with wearing of the boxer shorts which had been initially suggested as a modesty factor by my Australian head of household at the Aloe Palace, Pete Downings. Fiona, pregnant since late January, and Jack were expecting in October. From early on after her arrival at the Aloe Palace, Beno and Vedel had taken over her boudoir as Jack so eloquently put it, looking after her with such intensity of care that not just her wardrobe, but her daily bath, was paramount to them. Jack, whose slaves they rightly were, was attended to early morning and late evening before and after his work at the Bank. Jack, however, after his daily gym, invariably had one or other of the two slaves in the sauna to exercise his droit de seigneur when he had not picked out some other slave from the swimming pool. But he was strangely delighted with the level of attention and care being given to Fiona by both Beno and Vedel. He said to me one evening, `It lets me feel very relaxed that they are really lavishing all this attention on her.' Fiona had let it be known that she wanted the baby at the Aloe Palace. It was as if the old system had to adapt to the new arrival. Aziz al-Aziz, my head of household at the Lime Palace, was delighted to hear that. Apparently the last birth there had been the birth of Abdou al-Akhri, the former owner, who had sold the palace to me. `Not since the late Mistress had Master Abdou has a baby been born at the Aloe Palace. It is a sign of new life in an old Palace, Jonathan, a great sign!' were his comments. `Dr. Fournier is only five minutes away by sand-buggy when he will be needed,' was her comment when Jack tried to suggest the University Hospital. Beno and Vedel danced around her like workers and drones around the queen-bee. Her morning bath had become all of an hour-long ritual as the two Roma, according to Jack, repeating Fiona's comment--for he was not allowed into his own bathroom suite when these ablutions were going on--sponging her from head to toe and back again, perfuming the waters of her bath, time and time again. They became experts on the times she had to rest, the time for her to sleep and siesta, experts on how to give a foot massage, experts on her diet `for two' as they constantly reminded her. Apart from a minor false alarm in mid-September, the baby, a healthy boy was born on the last day of September, after a short labour, under the medical care of Yves Fournier. Fiona had insisted, apart from Jack, that Beno and Vedel be present for the birth and they, in surgical greens and masks according to Jack, were of more use to the Doctor than he as they stood there on the ready with towels for any contingency and damp cloths to mop the perspiration on her forehead. Like many an event for which there is the most drastic and awesome of planning, the moment itself of the birth of her child as Fiona said to me afterwards was an intensity of emotion and fulfilment such as she had never experienced before. `I am glad labour did not go on for hours and hours,' she said, `because I must have yelled the new paint off the walls. But when I heard the first cry and through the haze and exertion knew that everything had gone well, all I felt was a wave of unreserved joy. When I asked the baby's proposed name, Jack and Fiona said in unison Jason Jonathan Alexander Tuttle. The child would be another generation of JT's in the Tuttle family and I was pleased as punch, I really do not know why it made me so happy, why a child which appeared to sleep all the time in a sea of white linen was to bear my name as part of his. I made a mental note to have a word with Josh Green in the Grand Cayman to do something for my great-nephew and my sister Elizabeth's grandson. Jack adapted to fatherhood. Fiona adapted to motherhood. Beno and Vedel adapted to looking after three instead of two and were the ultimate answer to babysitters. While Fiona recovered from the birth, Jack exercised his droit de seigneur nightly on a series of available slaves when Beno and Vedel were not able to join him in the Palace's sauna. Jack and Fiona's bedroom suite in the Aloe Palace has a servant's room attached to it and Beno and Vedel were moved from the slave quarters into it. Now they were not just assistant overseers, slave-godfathers to the Mistress and Master's child, they were living in the Palace itself. It was something to which they adapted with ease, I can tell you. After the second night of the baby waking in the early hours of the morning with wind, neither Fiona nor Jack had ever to get up again, as one or other of the Roma slaves silently walked a white bundle up and down the corridors of the Palace. Whenever the baby woke up hungry, the slave in attendance would remain kneeling beside their bed while the child was breast-fed by a drowsy mother. The adapting of which people are capable was certainly seen also in another instance. I had at the `for mercy' request of Jerzy Zarchewicz taken the five former raiders, who were spending their lives on the water-wheels of the Palace gardens off that punishment and assigned them to him to do with them what he wished. If his first act of generosity had been in forgiving their killing Marek, his buddy and lover in their abortive raid on the Lime Palace, his second act of generosity concerned to their learning how to swim. Every slave at the Lime Palace puts in almost two hours of gym work per day. I love to see my slaves in tip-top condition and all have to know how to swim. Two of the former water-wheel slaves did not know how to swim and over three months, Jerzy, under Roge Harte's instruction, taught them how. Any antagonism which might have been harboured by the general body of the slaves against the former raider-attackers disappeared while Jerzy walked and floated the non-swimmers up and down the shallow end of the swimming pool until they had enough confidence to try a length. One of the slaves assigned to my Polish assistant overseer had been the leader of the gang of raiders. He had been assigned to offer his sexual services to the four others every morning and evening. `Does he not regret coming off the water-wheel, Jerzy?' I asked with a smile when I heard. `Since the loss of his right ball, Boss, he has become very docile. Certainly he has no regrets about coming off the water-wheel, that I do know, as I threatened him one day for being lazy and said I would have him on a water-wheel for two days. He dropped to his knees and covered his head in hands, as he begged and begged me not to.' I must have appeared surprised, because Jerzy continued. `When I said that the water-wheel would keep him busy in punishment for his laziness, he said that it was not the punishment of the water-wheel that frightened him but that no one would speak to him while he was on it and that he would be chained to it like a dancing bear.' That was not actually true. Ordinary slaves being punished on the water-wheel duty are put on it for two days but not chained. It was a forceful reminder to me that men, including slaves, are social animals and need the company of others for their mental and psychological health and that the loss of society is one of the greatest punishments of all. It was also proof to me that Jerzy Zarchewicz had adapted from being just a slave, a companion, a buddy and a lover to being quite an effective assistant overseer with his five Dahran Arab slaves. The assumption of adaptation suggesting that men and by extension slaves, can change only goes so far. I was very conscious of this as new batches of prisoner-slaves came in to the Lemon Palace. There is no substitute for experience in the training of slaves and no substitute for the gut feeling which trainers have with a particular slave. People, who have confidence in their own abilities and knowledge, have no difficulty in not only seeking the advice of others, but in also accepting that advice. It is a case of knowing that one's own experience goes only so far and that another's experience may give an added dimension, an added nuance, an added colour. Such was the case with the Corsican. Mirzan Babak, the overseer of the fifth compound was at Fernand Salort's side looking decidedly uncomfortable. The slave was standing insouciantly directly in front of me. It was as if the slave did not care that he was there or not and more importantly, it was as if he did not care whether I, the Master, was there or not. On one of my weekly visits to the compounds, Mirzan had come to me with his trainee slave and with his problem. He felt that the slave, who had progressed through all the compounds and had even been sent back to repeat the fourth and fifth compounds, was not trained. `Master, I can't put my finger on it. Something is wrong here. He does the exercises, but I am missing something and I do not know what. I am sure that he is not trained, that he is not totally submissive, that he is not a well-mannered slave inside. It is a gut feeling.' I took one look at Fernand Salort and I knew, I just knew that Mirzan was right. He was a hulking, sulky, sultry beauty. His face had a fine Mediterranean bone structure, his eyes set wide apart, with fine eyebrows and long lashes. His nostrils flared as he breathed through them and for some reason there has a hint of colour in his upper cheeks. His full lips, but not coarsely thick, were pink and moist where every so often he would rub them off each other. There was not a single wrinkle or line on his face. His jet black hair was a trimmed close crew-cut. His upper body had been naturally hairy but now was smooth as a forehead and his nipples had proud central nubs which seemed larger that they were in fact. The depilatory cream had worked its magic on Fernand's legs and the smooth coffee coloured skin of his thighs was not broken by any tan line. Here was a slave, who had sunbathed in the nude, was proud of his body, clearly proud of a medium sized organ with a beautiful crowned glans which had been circumcised some thirty days or so previously and whose under-skin was still freshly pink and rough. But broken, he was not, or I am not a Knight of St. Michael and St. George! I had ordered Mirzan to bring a four-foot camel cane from the wall of the compound and I had Raoul Sounard present as a French speaker. `I am not happy with your training, because your trainer is not happy with your training,' I said to the slave. Raoul translated. `Do twenty press-ups now.' The slave dropped to the sand and counted off twenty sit-ups as he had been trained to do. He hopped to his feet. The sit-ups had been good. The counting had been clear. `Do you think I have all the time in the day to look at you doing slow press-ups?' Fernand Salort looked a little uncertain for the first time. `No, Master.' `Mirzan, four of your best across his backside.' Raoul was translating as we went along. Mirzan put two fingers on the slave's shoulders and the slave, as he had been trained, bent down and grasped the back of his knees. The camel-cane flashed four times and after each cutting slice through the air, the slave counted off the strokes. `Now, twenty sit-ups quickly.' Although the slave's backside would have been tenderised by the camel-cane's first strokes, he sat on the sand and he went through the twenty sit-ups as ordered and counted them off. `When I order sit-ups I mean proper sit-ups. Mirzan four strokes.' Again, Mirzan had the slave bend over and a further four strokes landed firmly further down the backside of the slave heading towards the upper thighs. The slave jerked as the last three strokes landed and he counted them off. Three further procedures of on-the-spot exercises, shuttle runs and squat thrusts resulted in the same number of punishment strokes being administered, now to the upper and lower thighs. After the last set of four strokes, Fernand Salort had been barely able to count them off. Then he was ordered to do twenty left- and right-sit-ups. The slave lowered himself to the sand and very slowly started to do the overlapping sit-ups. There was silence all round as the defiance of the exercises was noted. `Is that how you were taught to do the left and right sit-ups?' Mirzan finally demanded. The slave was just finishing them which he did. `You will punish me whether I do them fast or slow. I choose to do them slow,' he said and then bent forward and caught himself around the knees waiting to be punished. His brazenness was now evident. He had not even deferred to me as Master in his reply. The action proved what both Mirzan and I had suspected. The slave was not thinking like a slave and certainly was not a broken-in one. `Get me some Aloe milk-sap,' I said. Ben Trant, who was nearest the central table in the compound went over and brought me back a jar of it. I went over to the bent-over slave and poured the entire jar over his upturned buttocks and thighs and proceeded to smooth it over the weals on the skin. The slave hissed a couple of times when my finger touched a more than sensitive spot. When finally finished, I said `now, at display.' Fernand Salort stood up straight and put his hands behind his neck. His chest was not very far pushed out, nor his belly pulled it, as a really trying slave would have them. `You have no idea what my praise or my punishment is or can be at any time. You are a slave, here to obey my orders. Just as I could put Aloe milk-sap on your skin to relieve the pain, so too could I have ordered another four strokes or have had you flogged to an inch of your life for that insolence.' I let Raoul catch up on the translation. `Now you can choose your final punishment for that insolence. One, you can start your training all over again in the very first compound. Two, you can accept one hundred strokes of a camel-cane here and now, or three, you can give up your remaining ball. You choose.' Raoul translated. The slave was trembling when Raoul stopped speaking. `You choose now, or I choose for you with a few tosses of a coin.' `You will never break me. I will never be your slave. Never!' he hissed. We were finally getting places. `You are my slave. You just don't get it yet. Complying with my orders fast or slow, you are my slave. Wearing my SIN number, you are my slave. Without your clothes, you are my slave.' I ordered the slave to stand at `rest'--his hands clasped in the small of his back. I then told Vaz to get a waistband which is used when slaves are delivered to us--a leather belt with a cuff on either side of it. Vaz put it on Fernand Salort's waist and fastened his wrists to each side of it. From my pocket, I took four small alligator clips--the real metal ones with the teeth, not the alternative ones with simple bars and placed them on the table beside me. The slave's eyes never left them for a second, nor did anyone else's for that matter. `I am still waiting for your choice of punishment.' The slave did not reply. Taking one of the alligator clips in one hand, I took the slave's cut penis in my right hand. He attempted to move back. Well-trained slaves do not move when being punished--another sign of his lack of acceptance of his training. Mirzan and Vaz held him firm and I opened the alligator clip and fastened it to the tip of his penis. The slave screamed as the teeth bit into the tender flesh and he bent forward so hard in a convulsion that he almost pulled his two trainers with him. `Stand up straight and then kneel twenty times,' I ordered, indicating to his two trainers to let him go. The slave's eyes were wide with pain and so bloodshot so that I could see the individual veins in the eyeballs. `Now,' I commanded. The slave struggled to comply and just over halfway through he began to cry quietly to himself. He finished the twenty simple exercises of kneeling down and standing up with the agony of the alligator clip biting into his cockhead. `Have you chosen your punishment?' Fernand Salort was gasping for air. He shook his head as he could not even verbalise a negative answer, such was the pain of that single point on his body. `Let me help you think more clearly,' I said to him very quietly and to Mirzan, I said, `Bend him over the table.' The slave's torso was quickly pushed down over the table. I kicked his legs wide apart to see the condition of his butt-hole which to my finger felt soft and tender after its exercising with butt-plugs over the days of the previous month's training. Taking up a second alligator clip, I pressed its open teeth against the lips of one side of the butt-hole and released the clip. This time the slave screamed and convulsed as pain shot up the long sphincter muscle through his body and down his legs. `Stand him up.' The slave was gasping for air between waves of pain. When the trainers released their grip on him, Fernand Salort half sank forward, trying to widen the space between his knees and so ease the shooting pains which the alligator clip on his butt-hole lips must have been causing him. `Have you chosen your punishment?' The slave opened his mouth to say something, but all he managed was a strangled half-cry and he started sinking to his knees. The cry vocalised into a single word, `Master,' which he started to repeat over and over. His stance and hold on defiance, resistance, challenge and insolence bled invisibly into the sands of Dahra. I raised the slave's chin which was almost on the ground. `Have you chosen your punishment?' `Master, you choose my punishment' and those words exhausted any challenge of his to my authority as tears of humiliation and pain streaked his face. His body sank to the sand and even seemed to get smaller. `Stand him up,' I said to Mirzan and he and Vaz stood the slave up again. `Bend him over.' I took off the butt-hole alligator clip. The teeth had not pierced the anal lips, but had left clear deep indents. The slave shouted hoarsely as the clip was taken off his flesh. Having been stood up straight and turned around towards me, I took off the clip on his penis tip. Again, the slave shouted hoarsely and again I noted that the alligator clip teeth had not broken the flesh of the cock-head, but had left it severely bruised, after what was not more than ten minutes in place. `You now want me to choose your punishment--to have you repeat the compounds, to be flogged or to lose your left ball. Is that what you want me to choose?' `Yes, Master.' `Fine, I choose your punishment as gelding your other ball. That will make you a very docile slave in my fields. Do you accept that punishment?' Fernand Salort's face had gone white and tears were starting to dribble down the sides of his nose. `Yes, Master. I accept your punishment.' There was something there in the voice which was not there previously and I took it to be the acceptance of a fate which he could not avoid or change. `So be it. You will be gelded when Mirzan and Vaz say so. Your remaining ball is now in their hands.' Mirzan and Vaz were looking at me and Mirzan asked in Arabic, `How do you want us to decide, Master?' `The first day you see defiance in the slave's eyes, Mirzan.' Mirzan went over to the slave and looked into his eyes. Fernand Salort avoided the look and Mirzan moved the slave's face, until there was no way to avoid Mirzan's look. `Master, I see shame at not being strong enough to resist. I see a form of acceptance of his new condition of slavedom. I cannot see the defiance or whatever I saw there before.' The extreme breaking of Fernand Salort was repeated on other incoming slaves by Mirzan and Vaz on various other occasions and according to Mirzan, it was done in the presence of all those slaves, who might be in the compound for training at the time. Fear is a poor and blunt training tool when compared to others available to the trainer of slaves. But when other training tools fail, it can be useful and used. In the case of difficult slaves like Fernand Salort, the assumption of adaptation from an environment of either total freedom, or one of prison life can never be determined by their mere living a life of slavedom in following instructions and commands from overseers and a general avoidance of trouble at my Palaces. In the cases where extreme training like that of Fernand Salort takes place, adaptation to our way of life at the Palaces does follow in time. As the fear of losing the remaining ball recedes, the slave offers something of himself, a little something extra for starters to the overseers. The overseers on their part are instructed to be extra vigilant for the very first sign of adaptation and to nurse it accordingly. It may be as simple as the slave volunteering for some extra work or duty. In one case, it was a slave stopping an argument between two others which could have turned ugly. The only common factor in all such cases, is that not a single one of such slaves has yet been promoted to assistant overseer which either requires my own single choice in the matter as Master, or the agreed choice of all the overseers in the particular Palace, subject to my approval. It is not that something is being held against the slave, but rather that such a slave has yet to prove himself consistently as being worthy of the promotion. End of Chapter 4 To be continued . . .