Date: Fri, 10 Mar 2006 18:24:25 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Sands - Chapter 22 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

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

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

This novel, The Dahran Sands, is the eighth novel in the Dahran series.

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 22 - The learned lesson

The chameleon changes colour to match the earth,

the earth doesn't change colour to match the chameleon.

(Senegalese proverb)

  It is not just among persons and freemen that states of apprehension
and fear are to be found -- they are also to be found in an almost
constant heightened measure among slaves. There are those who always
expect the worst, who await with certainty the arrival of undreamed of
disasters, and who generally are pessimistic as to the world at large.
Perhaps slaves, having lost their freedom - that ultimate and most
precious characteristic of the human person, do have a justification for
such states of fear.

  Bob Conrad who heads my serving staff is one such slave. Disaster lurks
for him at every corner, and he has, even after years in my ownership and
knowing that I never sell my slaves, the fear that one day I will tire of
him and his perfect backside and sell him. I have no need to threaten him
in anything; he does that all by himself.

  As he was serving me breakfast one morning, I happened to see something
over his left ear. Although my slaves have close cropped hair in any one
of three of styles, the hair is normally short, and without a shadow of a
doubt, some of Bob's hair was now grey.

  `When did your hair start going grey, Bob? You are barely twenty
five.'

  `Ivan saw it about a month ago, Boss,' -- Ivan Sorovitch is his
Ukrainian buddy and one of my Supervisors in the fourth compound.

  I pointed to a spot on the ground beside the table. Bob dropped to his
knees.

  `Do I worry you that much, Bob? Would you prefer another job in the
Palace?'

  `Oh, no, Boss. It's just me. You know me and I don't want another
job, unless...'

  `Are you still worried that I am going to sell you or something?'

  `The worry is always there, Boss.'

  `What will make it go away?'

  `I don't know, Boss, I just don't know. I just worry. Ivan tells me
not to. He never worries about anything.'

  `I promised you once, I would never sell you. Would you like it in
writing and put in your file? It may not mean much in Dahran law, but it
might mean something for you.'

  `You'd do that for me, Boss?'

  `Anything you ask, Bob, because you do know I love not just that butt
of yours, but all of you. What for example is worrying you today?'

  `This evening's dinner; the new slaves on the serving staff; that I
might displease you today in some way accidentally; that you'll replace
me; lots of things.'

  `What if I were to order you not to worry and if you did worry to give
one of your serving staff two strokes of a camel cane every time?'

  `Every time I worried, Boss? I would never stop beating them,' he
said with a genuine laugh.

  `You worry that I will replace you as my head of serving staff, Bob?
That would be madness. You are the best maître d'hôtel in all of Dahra,
bar none, and I have seen some good ones in my time!'

  I smiled at a maître d'hôtel who preferred out of his own choice to
serve me naked at my breakfast just so that I could enjoy the sight of
his jock's body.

  As we were speaking, I saw some slaves getting ready across the
courtyard to go out to the fields.

  `Tell me, Bob, is it my imagination or are the slaves bulking up? Look
at the shoulders and biceps on that lot across the way. It can't be the
farm work or I would have noticed it before now.'

  `It's another of Rolf's secret programmes, Boss. He and Komil are
planning a surprise for you, but you have not heard it from me. They
would kill me if they heard I had spilled the beans. When they do tell
you, you have to act really surprised.'

  `Really surprised?'

  `Yes, Boss, you're not a very good actor. Really look surprised when
they tell you.'

  `Of course, I'm a good actor. I'm a banker. I've told client upon
client with a straight face over my career that I will consider their
applications seriously, when I have no intention of doing any such thing.
Of course, I'll look surprised when Rolf tells me what he's up to.'

  `Believe me, Boss, you are not a good actor. Please look really,
really surprised, when you are told.'

  Rolf heads up my sports complex and gym at the Lime Palace and Komil is
the Head of Stables at the Lemon Palace. What had they got in common for
a secret programme? It was beyond me and I put it out of my mind. I would
learn all things in due course, once the super-cautious Rolf had decided
to bring his Master and Boss in on the secret. I had learned long ago not
to try and winkle matters out of Rolf before he was ready.

  A couple of further discoveries in the same week came from a different
source and were announced at my own dining-room table to be precise. The
medical staff join me for dinner any evening they so wish either
individually or collectively. Yves Fournier gave some results from one of
his varied and permanently ongoing studies and informed those sitting
assembled at the table that cholesterol and rheumatism were practically
non-existent among the slaves who have been at the Palaces for more than
two years, and dropping rapidly among the rest.

  `So what conclusion have you arrived at, Yves?'

  `That the slave diet is a good one; that proper daily exercise helps,
and most certainly the warm climate as well. They have only good
cholesterol in their system. When not genetic, cholesterol is caused
principally by a bad diet.'

  `I can add something else,' Graham Hodson, my old geography teacher
and now an agricultural adviser to me, said. `I have suffered from
arthritis for years. I have always put it down to the fogs of England and
the winter climate. Since here over the past three weeks, the arthritis
has all but disappeared in this dry heat, even including the sandstorm.
You know, Jonathan, I might even think of finding a place to live
permanently here in Dahra.'

  `Graham, the entire Aloe Palace is all but empty. The elderly Jon
Lundt, who looks after it, is a gardener. He and you would get on like a
house on fire. You are more than welcome to move in permanently. I need
someone to give overall direction to the al-Kadir farm project.'

  `You wouldn't object? I have been worrying about my house back in
England.'

  `Graham, sell it, rent it, lease it. Do with it what you wish, but
make the Aloe Palace your home and it is you who will be doing me the
favour. I need an oversight vision on the al-Kadir plantations. And also
I want you to have a couple of supervisors to help you with your work.'

  Graham merely smiled but he did look vastly relieved.

  I was not surprised when Ray Toepfer was returned to me by the Dahran
authorities a nine days after his departure from my Palace. He had left
my Palace naked and chained to the inside of a police car. He arrived
back naked and chained to the inside of a slave transit van. The chief of
police and his assistant were in an escorting police car. I just happened
to be on the veranda of the Palace when the transport arrived and the
chief of police waited until the transit driver had handed me the new
slave's tan folder for my signature of receipt.

  `Sir Jonathan, we thought that we would just escort the slave here
after he was processed at al-Qatim.'

  `That is most thoughtful of you, Captain.'

  Jake Peoples, my Palace messenger was standing by and I ordered him to
get me either Niko or Rob, the Supervisors of the first compound. I left
Ray Toepfer standing in the courtyard.

   `Was there any difficulty in this matter?'

  `None whatsoever, Sir Jonathan; neither with my boss or with the
court. We had the paperwork done in double quick time. With the court, it
was a clear-cut case of invasion and the court did not like it at all
that a rifle came from an embassy. The criminal gave a full confession.
We have to go now, Sir Jonathan. Thank you as well for your gifts the
last time. We mentioned them to our boss and he did not object. May this
slave serve you for many, many years.'

  I bid my adieus of the local police and went back to work in the study
leaving my new slave standing at display in the courtyard in the full
Dahran sun pending the arrival of my first compound Supervisors who would
complement the basic training the slave would have received on being
processed.

  When the two supervisors arrived, I gave them Ray Toepfer.

  `I want him back a perfectly trained slave. No holds barred.'

  `You do not have to worry about that, Master,' Niko said and Rob
nodded his head in agreement.

  There were just a couple of memorable things about my February
attendance at the board-meeting in London. I had dinner the previous
evening with my sister Elizabeth down from Scotland for some shopping.
Jock Tuttle, my brother-in-law, was too busy to travel down. Though I
love Elizabeth dearly, I had the beginnings of a headache by the time
dinner was over.

  The following morning Georgie Deckham presented himself to me before
the board-meeting. My new second junior partner for Dahra would be
travelling back with me on the New Concorde. I told him that he would be
installed in the Bank's villa in the capital city until he found a place
of his own. Had I chosen a new junior partner, it would not have been
this young tearaway, but when our esteemed Chairman asks for something,
you oblige and he never forgets the favour. Also, I thought that in a
way, Charlie Deckam was entrusting his son to me, not just to be trained
further in banking, but that I would be able to keep a closer eye on him
in Dahra than others had been doing in London.

  The board meeting itself was the usual reports, whose summaries I had
read and, after the light buffet lunch which usually follows our monthly
board-meetings, I came down to retrieve any poste restante which might
have been left at the bank for me to collect.

  Henry Russell is the Head Porter at the bank, a widower who has been
longer with Deckams than any other member of the bank staff, even longer
than our esteemed chairman, Charlie Deckham, whose grandfather and father
Henry had also served. When he reached sixty five, the normal retirement
age at the bank, Charlie had asked him straight out if he would like to
continue on working with us.

  `Most definitely, sir. Most definitely.'

  `Excellent,' Charlie had replied. `This retirement nonsense is off
until you let me know,' and that was that.

  Now at what I estimated to be seventy two, a silver haired sprightly
Henry had caught my eye after the meeting and went to retrieve my post.

  `How are you, Henry? And how is Mary?' -- Mary being his
granddaughter aged around nineteen, and whom he and his late wife had
raised when Mary's mother had died at birth. His granddaughter, whom I
had never actually met, was clearly the apple of his eye and he always
spoke fondly and in praise of her school achievements.

  `Both of us are fine, Sir Jonathan. I shall tell Mary you enquired
about her. She has started some form of self-defence. The course is every
week. She seems to enjoy it greatly. Thank you for asking.'

  It was difficult to make small talk with Henry because of what had
happened. Mary on turning eighteen had gone to a nightclub with some
friends, had been picked up by a guy in the club and had left with him.
One of her friends, as they had agreed among themselves should such
happen, had taken the number-plate of the car the guy was using. It was
just as well, because Mary had been assaulted and had her jaw dislocated
and cracked which had left her in St. Thomas's for over three weeks.

  I had discovered this when on a previous attendance at the bank some
six or so months previously; I had thought that Henry had looked very
unwell. The sorry story, with a little gentle probing, had come out in
total confidence. Mary would not go to the police. She simply would not
report the assault -- her reported comment being `who would believe me
or that I could have been so stupid'.

  I had remonstrated with Henry that surely with the car number and the
evidence of her friends that there would be a good case. Henry had taken
a card out of the breast pocket of his uniform with a number on it. `I
threaten myself to call the police daily, but every day that passes it
gets more difficult.'

  I had noted the car number which was as near a vanity plate as one can
have in England. It took me no time at all to get the owner details form
the DVLA in Swansea and that was the first step towards the lifting of
Nigel Broaders. It had shocked me to find out who had perpetrated the
assault, doubly-shocked that it could be an old boy of my former school.

  `Mary is fine, sir and getting on with her life in accountancy. She
has put it all behind her. The strange thing, sir, you would not have
read it, you being in Dahra and all that, but the man who did it has
disappeared. It took Mary so many weeks until she made up her mind. She
told me that, even if after all the time that had passed a conviction
would have become even more difficult. In the interests of others whom
the same man might try to assault, she wanted to tell the police. And
suddenly, he was gone. The papers reported that he might have amnesia.'

  `Strange indeed, Henry; but then, life is strange.'

  In the batch of post, I received letters from my two protégés, Jeremy
Burrows and Jason Smithers, down at Bristol University. Neither could
make it to London as it was in term with papers to hand in and they both
merely sent their regards.

  There was a set of company registration papers from Ryan Smith, my
electrician friend, who was setting up his own firm, as I had suggested
to him. I signed the shareholder's document he sent me and I put a
cheque for a hundred thousand pounds in the pre-prepared return envelope,
with a note wishing `best of luck and keep me informed of progress.' I
mused for a brief moment about ringing him. He owed me an evening of sex.
But time was pressing and I did not have the time to spare. I had to get
back to Dahra and the heat.

  During the hot hours of the day in Dahra, whether in the capital city
or in the countryside, it is better not to be out and about. The
temperature sun on over two hundred days a year is by far too hot, and
even a simple walk for twenty minutes in its rays can leave any fair
skinned person with the sore and tender start of a suntan. Because of
that at my Palaces, all slaves are indoors from eleven to three every day
when they take two hours of language classes or sex technique classes,
and then there are two hours gym training, sports or swimming.

  One of my eccentricities in an overwhelmingly desert land is that I
insist that all my slaves know how to swim -- believing as I do that
apart from skill, it is as good a way to keep fit as any other.

  So, I was not surprised when I myself went for a swim one afternoon to
find the gym and swimming area rather packed with slaves and quite
excited slaves at that.

  The large gym area was a hive of activity as exercises and routines
were gone through by the slaves. It is an area where slaves do not
acknowledge my presence as their owner and Master, as it is too dangerous
to be dropping weights and doing obéisances among the gym's many
machines.

  But as I approached the swimming pool, I realised that there was a
water-polo match in progress being cheered on by over a hundred other
slaves. This was new. I did not know that water-polo was on the agenda of
sports. There was a noise as a wooden clapper was twirled on its ratchets
as some foul or other was committed in the pool. There were fourteen
swimmers in the pool but I could not see any distinguishing marks on them
to divide them into their two teams.

  I recognised Rolf Hanzer as the referee who had stopped the match and
was explaining some rule or other to two nodding slaves on the pool edge.

  Someone shouted, `The Master', and silence fell on the swimming area
as slaves stood and went `at rest'. Those in the pool slipped out of
it. I noticed that all merely put their palms of the edge of the pool
and, with one fluid motion, levered themselves out of the water, such was
their body fitness and the strength of their upper bodies and arms.

  Rolf was at my side in a couple of seconds.

  `Boss, would you like to swim. The pool is ready. We were not
expecting you just now.'

  `Clearly not, Rolf; I am very pleasantly surprised. I see you have put
water-polo on the training programme. That is an excellent idea.'

  `I wanted it to be a surprise for you, Boss.'

  There was a hint of worry in his voice for it was not something that he
had cleared with me, not that he was obliged to. While all changes in
other programmes are usually first cleared with my say so, Rolf has my
total confidence.

  Rolf is second only to Bob Conrad for worrying, or rather more
precisely, for not presenting programmes until they have been thoroughly
tried and tested. I have repeatedly told him not to worry. It was as
useless as asking the sun not to rise in the morning! His uncertainty was
being mirrored in the slaves now standing around the edges of the pool.
They too had kept it under wraps, most likely on Rolf's instruction. Bob
Conrad's advance warning to me had been correct. This was the surprise.

  `Well done, Rolf,' and I threw my arms around his shoulders and gave
him a couple of pats on the back. `This is a great idea; an excellent
idea. Well done!'

  My performance I think merited an honourable mention on any Oscars
nomination list for best supporting actor because the slaves within
hearing distance were grinning and then, so too were the others further
down the line who saw me embracing the Head of Gym.

  `Do you have teams?'

  `For the moment, Boss, we have only two teams of twelve each between
players and subs, until I see how it turned out...and we have no
equipment. We are using a basketball. I didn't want to spend anything
out of the gym budget until I was sure.'

  I smiled to myself at my ultra-cautious Swiss-German pool and gym
manager.

  `Bring the teams over and have them stand `at rest'.'

  Rolf motioned the players and subs over. These were some of the joggers
I had seen pass through the courtyard.

  The wet players stood in line and I slowed walked down past each one
noticing that Rolf must have chosen them carefully, as they were all of
medium build, with good shoulders and tapered waists. I tapped one on the
chest where he had received a scratch.

  `A tough game, water-polo?' I said with a grin.

  `Yes, Master,' the slave replied a smile.

  Another slave was not quite balanced on his two feet. It is easy to see
this when slaves are naked. It was as if he had a muscle cramp in the
side of his stomach.

  I ran my hand down his belly which was hard packed muscle and when my
fingers went lower and touched his penis as I was about to cup his balls,
his body gave a small instinctive jerk.

  `Have you a cramp?'

  `No, Master, I got a kick in the balls during the match. It was an
accident. They are still quite sore.'

  I looked at the heavy balls in my hand with a modest penis already
beginning to become tumescent at my touch. I let them drop and said to
the slave, `Check in with the doctor.'

  `Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.'

  Turning to Rolf, I repeated myself for all to hear this time.

  `This is a very pleasant surprise, Rolf. Make sure that you get proper
equipment for the pool, goal-posts, balls, numbered headgear,' looking
back at the slave whose balls I had been nursing said, `and while you
are at it, get some water-polo togs in various colours with protection
cups. If you're going to do it, do it properly. You may be even able to
organise a league. It will help to keep the slaves fit.'

  `Yes, Boss!' Rolf almost shouted as a cheer went up from the slaves
around the pool.

  A particularly handsome dark haired slave whose name I could not recall
was the second last of the twenty four lined up, and I told him, in a
loud voice which carried, to report to Ben Trant after dinner to be my
bed-companion for that night.

  `Yes, Master. Thank you, Master,' he said as envious glances came his
way.

  `Why did I choose him among all the others?' I said to the assembled
slaves rhetorically and giving an `at display' order to the slave, he
sucked in his belly tightly, clasped his hand behind his head and stuck
out his chest as he had been trained to do. His rapidly drying body
gleamed to perfection.

  `There you have the answer. A well trained physique and a great upper
body. Let me see how many of you through water-polo training can achieve
that. That is the sort of physique that catches your Master's eye,' and
I gave the slave an advance pat on the rump as a promise of better rides
to come that night as I walked out of the swimming pool area with my arm
over the shoulders of Rolf Hanzer in a sign of continuing approval of my
gym manager.

  There is no doubt that different folks have different strokes. Graham
Hodson started on his layout plan of the al-Kadir property for planting
his kiwifruit crop. Stan Mercer was at his side for two days
continuously, he told me until he got the hang of Graham mind-set on how
he wanted the irrigation to work.

   The kiwifruit bushes, which had arrived looked very small, but on the
assurance from Graham that they would grow well and had to be spaced even
better he made his layout plan of two per five square meters. He asked me
if he could have an assistant.

  `Graham, choose as many as you want from any of the outdoor slaves and
you should always use one of the slaves as a driver on a sand buggy.'

  I did not want Graham to either get exhausted or dehydrated in the
Dahran heat.

  I was surprised when I subsequently saw that Graham had chosen Pavel
Vaksman, the Ukrainian slave who had serviced me in the shower of the
opal mine, as his driver.

  `Very quite, very obedient and always waiting for me,' was the
comment.

  `How did you choose him?'

  `I just looked, Jonathan, at those who were planting things in the
gardens and he was planting - I think it was iceberg lettuce - as if
every plant were special. I was not wrong in my choice and he drives
carefully as well.'

  `And who else have you found?'

  `There's an English slave, Mark Thornby.'

  `But he's a water-guy, is he not?'

  `Was a water-guy. When walking around the farms I noticed him as he
washed down one of the slaves, and then another. It was very slowly,
carefully, even tenderly, as a nurse would give a patient a bed bath in
hospital. I had him plant a half a dozen kiwifruit bushes and he planted
them as if they were the last six pieces of vegetation on the planet, and
each time looking back at me as if seeking advice or approval. I did not
want to show him anything, but rather see how he did it having watched
the other slaves. It was more a question of attitude, Jonathan. He is a
marvellous worker who wants to do well what he is told to do. I also am
using two young Kazakh slaves that Yuriy recommended, Boris and
Mikhail.'

  `Yes, those two were in his regiment or something, I seem to remember.
'

  `Yes, the very two. A little cheeky but good workers.'

  `Cheeky, Graham. My slaves are not there to be cheeky with honoured
guests.'

   `No, Jonathan, not in that sense. They realised I was on my own here
and suggested that I should have bed companions at night and that Yuriy
could confirm how good they were.'

  I could not help but laugh.

  `I also have two Poles called Zenon and Konrad -- they are supervisors
-- who never stop working.'

  `So you have your team of helpers, Graham. Take more if you need them.
Slaves are here to serve us.'

  I took that thought to bed with me that night and had Jake Peoples as
my bed companion. There is nothing quite so appetising as a golden
skinned slave spread-eagled on a bed with a well-lubricated hole lying
patiently there waiting to give a Master his pleasure.

  Jake's extensive training in sucking and rimming is such that I have
had to beg him, yes, beg him to stop. Cumming three times in one night is
quite sufficient for someone who has to get up early in the morning to
run a number of Palaces and a branch of an overseas bank. Well, that's
my excuse anyway. Were I twenty years younger and his age, well, that
would be another story, but the depth of feeling and the vividness of the
imagination makes up for what youthful genes have still to experience.

  When Jake had brought me off for the third time, he was looking at me
as if deciding on a fourth assault. Having come down to earth, I kissed
his eyelids and told him to keep them closed and went down on his nicely
tumescent penis.

  Pulling back the loose foreskin with my fingers, his pink glans was
soon the object of my tongue and with little jerks of his body he
registered the pleasure that was transferring from the tip of my tongue
to the tip of his urethra and around the head of his penis. I marvelled
at how he erected so quickly and inserted my middle finger into his anus
on a prostate searching operation. His prostate was like a small hard nut
and when my finger moved over it seeking its every contour, Jake's hips
rose in appreciation off the bed and his penis jerked upright into my
mouth. A trembling started in his limbs and passed into his torso. He was
holding off cumming like mad. I had given him no instruction either way,
to cum or not to cum, and gently in every increasing pressure circles my
finger circled his love gland.

  Jake People's groan was a mixture of agony and ecstasy as he came
pumping his seed into my mouth, spurt after spurt, and then he was done.
I had a mouthful of semen and I washed his cockhead with it in my mouth.
He is one of those slaves who is sensitive after cumming and although he
would never dare object to my sexual advances, he was now pushing himself
up on his elbows as the tenderness of his cockhead came down every neural
path to his brain.

  I came off his cock and seeking his lips, I emptied my mouth of his
seed into his mouth.

  `Now swallow.'

  He did. Patiently, he observed me waiting to be allowed speak.

  `What are you thinking, Jake?'

  `I am thinking that I am happy, Master -- that I have pleased you so
much that you would want to please me in return as you have just done. I
am happy that my brothers and I are here with you. I am happy to spend
the rest of my life pleasing you, any way you wish.'

  `That's quite a lot of things, Jake.'

  `Yes, Master, but I am your slave and I will love and serve for as
long as I live, if you will let me.'

  `That is good, Jake.' I gave him another kiss. `It is exactly what I
want from you.'

  It was only when I said `I will' in reply that I realised that it was
like a promise. But then as Master, am I not bonded in a sense to my
slaves and they to me?

  I got up and walked to the window of the bedroom suite. The pellucid
and clear desert moon was casting its glassy light over the buildings of
the Palace. Beyond were the unbroken sands of Dahra's western desert in
pale and dark contrasting moonbeam shades.

   Jake padded over nakedly to me with a blanket from the bed.

  `Master, you have goosebumps' he said as he draped the blanket over
my shoulders.

  I caught an edge of the blanket and enveloped Jake under it as well. It
was appropriate -- Master and slave close in a symbiosis of service and
need. But then, this is Dahra after all where things are never quite what
they appear to be and, despite the trappings of the twenty first century,
matters are firmly rooted in century old traditions. The warmth of one
such tradition stood patiently close to me.

  As Master of the Palaces, as owner of my slaves, as a wealthy banker
and businessman, my life suggested success.  Was that all I wanted?  Time
would well, and the sun rose on a new day.

  Dahra,

  February 20xx



End of Chapter 22

End of The Dahran Sands

The ninth novel-The Time Line- will issue in some months' time.

Many thanks to all who have stayed with the story, to all whom have
emailed me, and to all who have been supportive of gay writing of this
genre.

===========

Contact:

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