Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2005 12:52:46 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Sands - Chapter 5 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the fifth 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.

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

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Chapter 5 - The Swedish problem

Do today what you want to postpone until tomorrow.

(Lebanese proverb)

After the installation of the two Russian barber slaves, one of the
day's small pleasures was the evening presentation of the slaves who had
been to the barbers' shop that day. It was not an inspection as such, as
the inspection of the slaves takes place early morning by their
Supervisors. It is strange how our minds give possession to those who use
things. The barbers being slaves could not own `their' premises, yet
force of habit makes us say and think that it is `their shop'.

On the days I would return from the Bank at five, there I would find
lined up in the courtyard the ten to twelve slaves -- it started off as a
low number but in time increased -  who had gone to the barbers that day.
They would at times have been waiting up to half an hour for me on bank
days, depending on traffic, and the warmth of the afternoon sun brought a
sheen of light perspiration to their skin. It was the presentation of the
slaves at their physical best, proudly presenting their bodies to their
Master! What was also clear was that their regular exercising in the pool
and gym areas was paying off.

I got into the habit of simply handing over my briefcase and papers to an
awaiting Ben Trant, my secretary or Gianni Centini, his lover and
assistant, and then taking some minutes viewing the lined-up slaves.

I find that my slaves are genuinely appreciative of the time I spend with
them. As a Master, I could well ignore them, simply use them for the
services they provide for me and my Palaces, but there is something very
pleasing about a well-turned out slave, who has his body buffed to
perfection with a light coating of Aloe cream, whose trim frame and
musculature shows also the results of daily exercise of physical labour
on my farms.

I take my time inspecting the firm texture of their skin, the softness or
wiriness of their remaining body hair, their nipples standing proud in
the warm evening sun, the sporting of a half-tumescent cock or their
simple relaxed genitals set off a perfect trim of pubic hair. I find that
a number of slaves in my presence as an authority figure in a smart
business suit start to get hard-ons. It is always a pleasant sight.

Although slaves generally do not speak to me unless spoken to, while in
appreciation I run my hands over their bodies, I always make the effort
to engage with the slave and compliment him on his good turn out. It
makes for good slave management and a grateful slave who knows his Master
is pleased with his body. Overall, I am generally pleased and have been
from that very first evening with the two Russian barbers' contribution
to the life of the Palaces.

Upon reflection, I think the barbers' shop was an inspired step by Randy
and simply proved to me yet again, that if you give slaves some
responsibility -- within limits of course - and oversee them well, in
their own area of work expertise they will make good suggestions time and
time again.

It gave each of the Overseers and slaves a further sense of their
personal grooming which is important to me as Master and it showed to the
slaves the importance that I attached to them being well-turned out, even
though they stand naked for my pleasure and do not wear a single item of
clothes or footwear, only their GPS bracelet.



At dinner one evening in late December, Gustav had told me that he was
making the elderly slave, Jon Lundt, his new Head of Household instead of
Olaf. I merely nodded at the time, not in approval, as it was not my
call, but in a sign of understanding both him and his reasoning. I felt
that Gustav was coming to grips with his changed realisation of his own
slave situation.

Gustav put his entire contingent of slaves, with the exception of the
elderly Jon Lundt, into the compounds for open-ended retraining. On this
occasion, he had clearly done on that fateful day for the slaves what he
might have wished to postpone till the morrow.

When Yuriy had told me this, I looked at him.

`The retrainers were able to fit them all in?'

`No problem, at all, Boss. They actually took it as a bit of challenge.
We spread the slaves over four of the five compounds. It was the agreed
opinion of the Overseers that they did not need the compounds to be in
sequence. Master Gustav is going to find some very well-trained and
humbled slaves at the end of their training. Some of his Swedes were
never fitted with a butt-plug before their first night in the retraining
cells, after Master Gustav had thrown them out of his Palace,' Yuriy
replied with a wicked smile.

My eyebrows must have formed at least one question mark.

`Boss, you should have seen the lubed butt-plugs being inserted in the
first compound. One of the Swedes even shouted `Gustav does not know
you're doing this. He wouldn't allow this.' You know what, Boss? Rob
Kuiper took the butt-plug out the Swede's hole and gave it to him to
kiss before pushing it right back in and then he got the slave to repeat
fifty times `I love my Master Gustav' as the slave was obliged to do
fifty fast push-ups. Rob had no sympathy at all for that uppity Swede.'

`Uppity Swede? Yuriy, your English is now better than mine.'

`That's because I have a good Boss and Master,' Yuriy flatteringly
replied.



I met Spyros, the assistant Overseer of the second compound, quite by
accident the following day as I was in the courtyard.

`How are Gustav's Swedes coming along?

`Boss, I have them racing around the compound like cheetahs in the
mornings and doing the swinging bars like monkeys in the afternoons. I
have had to use the cane a fair bit. More than I would normally use on
new slaves, but these Swedes, I know some of them reasonably well, they
have over the years forgotten all the training they received before their
auctions. Boss, whoever said that Master Gustav was treating them as
friends and equals may have been right. Friends are friends, Master. But
slaves are slaves, including myself, Master.

`I have Björn, Master Gustav's former special friend in my compound.
Boss, I just don't like his attitude and I had him on the flogging frame
yesterday for all to see. Almost thirty strokes with a camel-cane. He
would not count them off, and I told him his flogging would actually
start when he started counting. He started after the eighth stroke when
he saw I was serious. You know, Master, I was annoyed. I think he
believes this training is some form of joke, and let me tell you before
he leaves my compound, João and I will have shown him that our training
compound is no joke.'

I nodded my approval as I am sure Gustav would have done had he been
around.  I smiled to myself at Spyros referring to the second compound as
`his'.

`Carry on, Spyros. Master Gustav wants results and for his sake, so do
I.'



A Master's privileges are many. Inside the walls of his home his word is
law, his wishes fulfilled, his merest whims seen to in a flash. In fact,
the Master's word is life and death. Therein lies a danger. Because if a
Master intimates that he likes orange juice for breakfast, hell will
freeze over before any one of his slaves will dare suggest grapefruit or
cranberry juice. This will happen if one's slaves are menial and
untrained for more than a set number of jobs.

Many of my fellow slave-owning Masters in Dahra follow the latter line of
thought and train their slaves for the most boring and repetitive jobs,
for field or other menial work where thought rarely if ever enters the
equation, and use them as domestic servants. Dahrans historically, it
seems to me, prefer to give skilled and qualified jobs to free people.
Some, but very few, slaves become the confidants of their Masters. A
minority of slaves work inside the Palaces of their Masters and their
various homes, but the vast majority of any Master's slaveholdings are
for outside work. These latter slaves are sold when too old or unable to
perform adequately the menial tasks for which they were first acquired,
and by acquired, I mean bought.

At times, I have wondered about the discrepancy between the extent to
which I, with a newcomer's enthusiasm perhaps, use slaves on my own
properties, and the more restrained usage of slaves by Dahrans. If slave
labour is traditionally limited to certain heavy menial work and domestic
service, is this because Dahrans habitually underestimate their slaves'
potential? Or are there other reasons why on a wider scale my use of
slaves for engineering, secretarial or computer networking jobs, to name
but a few, is not being copied by anyone else in Dahra? Being however a
private citizen and not having an entire Sheikdom to worry about, I admit
that I usually push these questions aside.

In my own Palaces, I have never officially muzzled the ability of my
slaves to be inventive. Flavio, my chef and head of many staff in the
kitchens, is effectively the ruler of his own small fiefdom of authority.
I rarely interfere in its workings. I have given him broad preferences
and left their application to him and his inventiveness. Rarely am I
disappointed, and more often than not surprised at the results.

My slaves, almost all of whom have been ripped out of their old
environments by being lifted or by being imprisoned and then shipped to
Dahra ending up in my eventual ownership, all take time to settle in to
accepting my position as Master. Most, with extremely few exceptions,
break during their training in the compounds, realising that resistance
is futile and sooner rather and than later, seeing that my rule of their
lives is not cruel but pragmatic and bearable, settle into regular
patterns which have no weekends, no feasts, no celebrations, but simply
the general or specific serving of my own needs and those of my Palaces.

In this sense, they are told what I like and what I do not like, and in
this way, they know that to stay in my favour and avoid punishment they
must do as they are trained and told to do.

In one way, the policy of few words but carrying a big stick does pay
off. Some punishments are visible, such as the waterwheels, the
infrequent flogging, or the retraining over days or weeks in the
compounds as with Gustav's slave at the moment. However, all my slaves
have one safety net. They know that I do not sell my slaves --well, apart
from some few transfers -- technically a sale in Dahran law -- to Aziz
al-Aziz, now my Head of Household at the Lime Palace and to my nephew,
Jack Tuttle and his wife Fiona.

Those who have come directly into my ownership do know, either personally
or from others who had previous Masters, the type of life to be avoided
at all costs that could await them were they ever to be sold. This is a
threat I have rarely held over them, but held it over them I have, and
whatever about my non-history of selling slaves, I could change that at a
whim, and they know it.

By no stretch of the imagination must my Palaces be regarded as some form
of slave utopia. They are not. The physical Palaces and their slave
occupants have no ultimate will or freedom of their own. Their freedom of
mind is relative. Their freedom of action is only within the Palaces'
limits and in alignment with my wishes. To my mind the loss of freedom,
be it civil, personal or of the mind, is the ultimate slavery.

A Master will rarely hear questions from a slave whose entire existence
depends on his will - let alone criticism. A slave's horizon remains
limited to what the owner allows him to know, and is cut off from
everything the owner deems unnecessary. I encourage my Overseers to put
suggestions to me. Free exchange of opinions, however, is not possible.

Dahra's ruling class consider slavery a convenient institution which
they are willing to uphold at considerable expense. In Dahran households,
slaves are used as servants, and sexually too, but to discuss the estate
and private affairs there are usually other free people around.

I have chosen differently. In part, this is, of course, because I live
alone without a family or partner. Perhaps my choices have been
influenced by the fact that I did not grow up in a household with slaves,
like members of Dahra's slave-owning class who already in their youth
acquire a casual approach to the ownership of human beings. Perhaps, it
is that even with my years in Dahra, the pleasure of interaction with
slaves may have lost some of its novelty, but hardly any of its thrills.
Perhaps, I am unusually susceptible to the enjoyment derived from having
all the power on my side.

Having surrounded myself almost exclusively with slaves on my estates, I
am different from most affluent Dahrans whose private lives tend to be
much less focused on their slaves, and much more focused on their
acquaintances, family members and friends.

Nor can my slaves be regarded as anything other than ordinary sexual
beings in extraordinary surroundings. Many are bisexual who have found a
new happiness of a sort with, in the main, a regular and unchanging male
buddy in a sexual relationship which in their previous lives they would
not have considered due to lack of opportunity or the frowns of society
or their own natural culturally imposed inhibitions.

A number of my slaves do change partners regularly, but they are a
minority. There is the general belief held among slaves that `it's
better the devil you know that the one you don't' as the proverb
suggests.

The vast majority of my slaves are heterosexuals who find companionship
and sexual release with their chosen companion and buddy. Sexual
happiness and fulfilment as would correspond to their innate and
congenital preferences are unattainable for them.



When a slave is assigned to be my bed companion for the night, unless he
is one of my requested regulars such as Ross Wells or Abdul ben-Azri, I
normally do not expect to see him again for some time. So I smiled to
myself when I saw Dmitri Solidiuk, the tall splendidly built former
Russian tour bus driver assigned to me within a short number of weeks. I
knew from my previous experience with him that he had been exercising
with great effort to build up his physique, but what continued to cause
me to smile was his trademark - his perfectly combed pubes.

`Dmitri, at rest.'

The slave at gone to his `display' position when I had entered my
bedroom suite, and now relaxed with his wrist clasped behind his back.



`I must ask Ben why he has assigned you again so soon to be my companion
for the night. What favours have you been doing to get back here so
soon?'

When Dmitri blushed, I knew I had hit home. I cocked an eyebrow at him.

`Nothing for your secretary, Master, other than to assure him that I was
very good in bed and had pleased you, I believe, the last time I was
here. But I have been teaching the back-stroke during swimming to Gianni,
his assistant.'

`And I'll bet you have told Ben how well Gianni is doing on more than
one occasion.'

`Yes, Master,' the slave replied again blushing.

My bedroom attendants, Terry and James, were relieving me of the day's
clothes, not even deigning to give a single look to a mere transitory
slave in the bedroom suite.

`Terry, get me that camel-cane beside the dresser.'

Terry Peoples' eyes widened, but he immediately moved over to the large
amphora beside the dresser where two camel-canes are left for any
interesting sex-game which might develop in the bedroom.

Pointing to the large leather table to the side of the room with its
adjustable flaps, I said to Dmitri Soliduk `Kneel up on that table, head
and shoulders on the table, knees together, and put that backside of
yours up in the air.'

`Yes, Master,' Dmitri said and with two paces was over to the table and
up on it as instructed.

I took the camel-cane from Terry Peoples and walked over to the table.
The perfectly rounded buttocks of the slave were warm under the touch of
the palm of my hand. I felt him tremble. Most assuredly, this was not the
way he had imagined his night would start.

`Count each stroke.'

`Yes, Master.'

I delivered six evenly spaced strokes of the cane on the slave's rump,
leaving six rising weals across both buttocks. They were not professional
strokes. I needed the slave to be active that night. He counted off
evenly, albeit with the odd gasp.

`Down.'

The slave got down from the table and stood `at display' as he should
have after punishment.

`Dmitri, I admire your initiative to get back into my bed, but I do not
like the way you use people. Help Gianni to learn to swim but accept no
favours for it.'

The slave nodded.

`Yes, Master, but at least tonight, let me pleasure you because you are
my one and true Master.' There was not an inflection of resentment at
the punishment he had received like the good and well-trained slave he
was.

I had to smile and relent in my annoyance at such persistence. I pointed
to the bed and Dmitri bounced across to it, red weals flashing in the
evening light. I left him there while I took a leisurely shower and wash
with Terry and James, who for some reason thought the whole situation was
amusing as they never stopped smiling throughout the ablutions.

Punished or not, Dmitri that night was a delight and his attention to
sexual detail had to be marvelled at and admired.



It is always advisable not to bark if you have a watchdog. It confuses
all and sundry, to say nothing of the poor beast whose best function you
are usurping. What I really mean to say is that when amateurs attempt a
professional job, the results are at the best of times not too
encouraging. So the best advice is leave professional work to the
professionals. In this sense, I prefer to stand back and watch those
entrusted with their task to do that task untrammelled in their work.

This thought struck me as I was looking at one particular Swede just
hanging from the `swing bars' as we call them. When used correctly
after some practice, the slaves can use the swing bars individually and
swing chimpanzee-like from the start to the end point. Their purpose is
to strengthen the upper body and the muscles of the arms and shoulders.

The particular slave at whom I was now looking had dropped a number of
times to the sand, failing to complete the series of swings. Most
certainly, it does require a degree of fitness and of upper arm strength.
I have done it myself, though admittedly not with any great dexterity or
speed.

The compound Supervisor was clearly not pleased at the slave's lack of
progress, because very quietly, he had told the slave simply to jump up,
grab the bar and hang on. Then the Supervisor had walked over to the
central table and drawers where various training aids are left and
stored.

The Supervisor rummaged for something among the assortment of aids on the
table and returned with two alligator clips. I know the type. One of them
had snapped shut on one of my fingers at the Khan supermarket emporium
when I was buying them, and I can assure you they have a nasty bite to
their serrated alligator teeth.

The slave was still hanging on for dear life onto the swing bar, when the
training Supervisor returned, squeezed some of the slave's chest flesh
around the nipple into a little mountain and let the alligator clip snap
on. The slave struggled to maintain a grip and again managed to keep his
grip on the bar when the second clip was also attached to the other
pectoral muscle and its tender aureole.

I could see the slave now perspiring and gasping for air. The Supervisor
said something low to the slave and going behind the slave, slightly
supported the slave at waist level and the slave began to move hand over
hand down the swing bar.

I saw the purpose of the waist lift. From a standstill position with the
pain of the clips going up through the chest and arms, the slave would
have been hard-pressed to move at all, but once put into motion was able
to proceed down the swing bars, a poor gibbonesque imitation of a one of
a rainforest's funnier, more charming and endearing inhabitants.

At the end of the swing bars, the slave was allowed drop to the sand,
rest for fifteen seconds, and was then hoisted back onto the bars. I lost
interest after the slave had done this half-a dozen times, and I went
over to a flogging frame where another Swede was about to receive what
turned out to be ten strokes with a four foot camel-cane, after which he
quite literally sped five times around the wall of the compound as his
training Supervisor stood there with a stopwatch in hand.

While training is in full progress as is the rule, no one even
acknowledges my presence as Master. I could have been invisible as far as
the training in hand in the compound was concerned, a ghost, a fly on the
wall, an observing spider in an ignored corner web.

End of Chapter 5

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