Date: Sun, 26 Dec 2004 22:28:30 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seventh Desert - Chapter 12 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor

This is the twelfth  chapter (ex twenty two) of a novel about present-day
slavery and gay sex.

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

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.



		   Chapter 12 - The levels of happiness



  As we arrived back to the Lime Palace mid-afternoon from the trip to
the opal mine, I spotted Stan Mercer, my Property Manager, coming out of
his office with two of his team.

  `Stan!'

  `Boss, what can I do for you?'

  'Find something for this slave to do and get him processed with the
medics. Have those restraints taken off ,' I said turning to indicate Al
Vine who had come up in the front of the Rolls from the depths of the
Seventh Desert. He was still in his temporary vest and shorts.

  One of Stan's assistants unshackled the slave's ankles and wrists.

  'Get naked,' I ordered. 'Only Supervisors and Overseers use clothes in
my Palaces.'

  The slave was naked in a thrice, with the offending pants and shirt in
his hand. I indicated to Jess to take the clothes off the slave.

  `Boss, I have the very job for him,' and Stan hooked a finger and had
the slave follow him and his team to parts unknown.



  David Tuttle, my Construction Manager on the new Lemon Palace, had come
out to walk with me in the gardens before dinner that evening. We were
only at the level of the last of the slave quarters, when the most
appalling stench hit my nostrils with a slight change in the wind.

  `In heaven's name, WHAT is that?'

  `The Lime Palace's own sewage system I'm afraid, Boss,' David said.
`It backed up this morning and started coming up out of the foul
sewers.'

  We moved on as quickly as possible, until we were able to breathe
normally again.



  The following morning at breakfast the smell of the sewers was worse,
or maybe it was because the wind was definitely blowing from the west all
the time. I looked at my breakfast on the veranda table and it looked at
me. Not even Basili and Igor's morning offering of a small but beautiful
Conophytum cactus could induce me to lift toast to lips.

  Bob, my normal waiter, was looking nervous. Ben Trant, my secretary,
even came out of my study and looked in the offending direction.

  Enough was enough! I got up and strode over in the direction of the
slave quarters. While at the old Aloe Palace, the sewage system from the
Palace is manual, at the newer Lime Palace not even four years built, it
was supposed to be automatic, in that, operating under gravity, all the
sewage would come out into a main sewer where in one low section of the
grounds, almost a quarter of a mile away from the Palace, it would flow
into six plots as we call them, each used on a successive day.

  The sewage of the day, once hit by the heat of sun dried within hours.
Within further hours, it was being eaten by dung-beetles and within a
week, bingo! We would have a pit of the best cactus fertiliser. The pit
was cleared out and would be filled with fresh sewage again six days
later. Perfect ecology! Perfect balance with nature!

  However, the blockage meant the sewage was surfacing a quarter of a
mile too soon. I turned the corner of the last building and there was the
property team, Stan, Wik and Jerzy, all with cloths to their faces.

  A large open manhole was being peered into and as I came close with the
inadequate protection of a handkerchief as a breathing mask, a naked
figure emerged from the manhole holding a dead two-foot rat by the tail.
The naked slave was covered from head to toe in shit. It did not seem
possible that so much excrement could adhere to one person but it did.

  The three members of the property team took a step backwards, as the
slave threw the brown creature on the ground, a very large Acomys
cahirinus, the Dahran spiny rat, and clambered the last few rungs out of
the manhole.

  `There was at least two more nests of them, sir. The nest we poisoned
and took out yesterday wasn't the only one. This rat seems to be the
last one,' he said to Stan.

  `Let's try again,' and Stan nodded to Wik who twisted a valve-wheel
on the wall of the slave-quarters to open it.

  There was the sound of falling liquid and then something like a belch
as the liquid was sucked into the sewer.

  `Sir, it's flowing. It's flowing,' the slave shouted as he looked
into the nether regions of the manhole.

  It was only when the slave looked up and I saw his eyes that I
recognised Al Vine. He saw me and as a good and well trained slave would
do, he dropped to the ground and made an obeisance, his forehead touching
the ground. I remember thinking that he actually looked like a six-foot
long turd such was the amount excrement on him, but I said nothing.

  I nodded to Stan and walked back to the veranda hoping that I could now
face breakfast, which fortunately I was able to do, saying that I would
continue my review of the farms when my nostrils had recovered their
normal sense of smell.



  Trying to do something positive again when trying to put the smell of
the morning out of my mind, I instructed Ben Trant to start compiling a
list of potential guests for the house warming party of my new home, the
Lemon Palace. Ben looked in his element at the request and set about it
immediately.

  Maybe there was something to giving slaves a long leash with which to
serve me, their Master. I would think about that. It was at moments like
these that I could not believe how I was using other human beings in a
manner, that I could never have conceived just some four or five years
previously.

  There are a number of slave owners in Dahra--two in particular spring
to mind--whose attitude to slaves is not so much their use as their
non-use, disuse and ultimate abuse. One of them, who in business is quite
astute, has an attitude best summed up as `flog'em early and flog'em
often'. Another has a farm close by me, which he visits twice a year if
that; and his slaves there are all but abandoned. It is little wonder
that when he is in residence, he has to bring household staff and slaves
with him from the capital city.



  As I finished breakfast, I noticed the Dahran Posts' van drive into
the courtyard and pull up at my secretary Ben's office across the
courtyard from me. The postman went into it with a large canvass bag,
which seemed to unbalance his gait pulling him down to the left as he
walked. Three or four minutes later, he was out with the bag folded in
his hand and, in the other, a large bundle of white envelopes.

  As breakfast had finished, I emptied my coffee cup of its last drops
and strolled across in the warm morning sun to the office. I walked into
a hive of activity. The post was being sorted into three piles or lots.
No one seemed to notice my arrival, until Gianni, Ben's assistant looked
up in alarm and said `The Master'.

  Two slaves who had been with their backs to the door and inputting data
into computers dropped like stones to the floor in obeisance, as did
Gianni, and two others, whom I recognised as Jiri Aron, a Czech slave
belonging to my Head of Household, Aziz al-Aziz and Jan Korda, the slave
assistant to David Tuttle who had managed the construction of the Lemon
Palace for me.

  Both dropped to the floor, also in obeisance. As Ben had already seen
me this morning, he just stood there. Slaves are not supposed to talk
until spoken to, but a number of mine, including Ben, have never really
learned that art.

  `Master, is something wrong?'

  `The post has arrived?'

  `Yes, Master, we are sorting it. Jiri will take Master Aziz's and
Gustav's to them and Jan will take Master David's to him. We will then
number your post on the computer and file, or answer it. It will soon be
ready.'

  `Number, file?'

  Ben Trant explained that he assigned a number to every incoming and
outgoing letter and originals and copies were then filed as appropriate.

  `Bills here, Master, reports for Supervisor Tommy Saunders here,
invitations and correspondence here.'

  `Whose system is this?'

  `It's Ben's own system, Master,' Gianni blurted out in admiration
of his boss.

  Ben looked annoyed and pleased at the comment all at the one and same
time.

  `Is this a normal amount?' I asked looking at the pile for the Lime
Palace.

  `Yes, Master, about normal for the day. Seventy two items in all. We
will have it sorted, with replies ready for signing by you tomorrow
morning as usual,' Ben replied.

  I had not realised there was so much in the back office so to speak,
but then again, upon reflection how many CEO's of corporations and
companies do realise that.



  As I walked out of Ben's office, I spotted Stan and he me, coming out
of his office.

  `Where did you find him, Boss?

  `Who, Stan?'

  `This gem of a worker.'

  `Who?'

  `This Al guy.'

  `At the opal mine. An interesting case. Did you not look up his
file?'

  `Boss, I never do. If you give me a slave to assign work to, I do just
that. I don't start reading up files that may tell me he is a mass
murderer. I prefer the simple life.'

  `Mass murderer? No such thing, Stan, an ex-Army guy, a mercenary.
He's okay is he?'

  `More than okay, Boss, a gem. Have you ten minutes? You didn't finish
the farm inspection this morning?'

  `No.'

  `Then, follow me, Boss.'

  As I have mentioned previously, the Palace sewage system disembouches
into one of six, what we call `plots' a little over a quarter of a mile
on the far side of the new Lemon Palace. The whole system works
essentially under the flow of gravity, as the Palace is on slightly
higher ground and the plots on a lower section of the land.

  Once the foul water and sewage exits, it starts to fill up the assigned
plot, which is more like a shallow swimming pool about twenty by twenty
metres, but only some centimetres deep. Within a couple of hours, with
the heat of the Dahran sun, the water evaporates and scarabaei
coprophaghi, the local dung-beetles, come out of nowhere to eat the
excrement. It sounds horrible but it is an extraordinary sight.

  On the second to the fifth days, the results are raked and raked so
that every possible retained drop of water, or other liquid evaporates
and fresh droves of dung-beetles sift through the residue for a fresh bit
to chew on. I have heard it said by an entomologist that the true
fertiliser is actually the excrement of the dung-beetle itself. But that
sounds rather gross. However, on day six, the farms or my cactus gardens
have available to them never less that fifteen one-stone bags of the
purest fresh fertiliser, as fine and as friable as peat moss.

  Because of the smell which arises from the fresh excrement and effluent
flowing in each day, the plots are surrounded by a double ring of white
poplars, shielding them from winds which cannot therefore blow smells
around, or at least, for any distance. These deciduous poplars are the
growing proof that, with lots of water, heat and fertilised soil, trees
will grow almost anywhere there is sun.

  As we approached, Stan, who had been filling me in on various
improvements to the fabric of the various Palaces, suddenly put his
finger to his lips.

  There was the sound of whistling.

  We approached silently and through a gap in the poplars could see Al
Vine, naked but for a straw hat, walking up and down one of plots with
one of the large wooden rakes of the type which we use on the farms,
raking what would have been one of the earlier effluent deposits of the
week.

  Then he sat on the dividing wall between two ponds and swung his legs
over the wall and carefully placed his feet on the residue in the next
plot.

  He was whistling all the time to himself, and I could not help smiling
at the tune `Oh, what a beautiful morning!', which in fact the day was.

  Stan and I followed the path round and stepped through a gap in the
poplars. More than hearing us, I think Al Vine sensed our presence,
because he turned round, saw us, jumped over the wall of the pond,
leaving the rake balanced against the wall, whipping off his straw hat
and running up to us to make an obeisance.

  Technically an obeisance was not necessary as he had seen me earlier
that day in a much smellier state, but nevertheless a good obeisance was
what he made. His generally hairless body was deeply tanned and light
coloured hair created a crew-cut on his scalp.

  `Up'.

   He got up and went to display.

  `Why were you whistling?'

  `Whistling, Master?'

  `Yes, whistling.'

  `Because it is such a beautiful day, Master and because I am so happy
to be working here.'

  `In a shit pit?'

  `In a fertiliser manufacturing and production unit, Master.'

  I looked at him and did not know if he was trying to pull my leg or
not, but then I seemed to recollect that the Army had terminology all of
its own to describe everything from an ashtray to a tank.

  However, Stan intervened with a smile, `that is how I described it,
Boss.'

  `At rest.'

  I walked up and looked in the ponds. Each was raked with precision,
with the ridges of the rake's teeth still visible in the `fertiliser'.
Over the surfaces of the sewage residue, beetles were already scurrying
back and forth in the bright sunlight. It was a hive of fertiliser
manufacturing activity

   `Happy to be working here?' I said, as I ran my hand over his body,
which had a light sheen of sweat on it. When my hand touched the smooth
skin below his navel, an involuntary and immediate erection started.

  `Yes, Master. After the heat of the opal mine, this is like being on a
beach at a lake back home,' and he nodded in the direction of the trees.

  My hand was now cupping the slave's sole ball and he had neither
moved, nor blinked an eyelash. He had lost a ball like all the recent
mercenaries who had gone to the opal mine. Now a large crop of precum was
in his piss slit and when I smoothened it over his cock head, the precum
was so thick that it was almost viscous. A strange slave I thought to
myself. Would I have been that happy if the roles had been reversed and I
had lost a ball?

  `Master,' the slave almost whispered, `if you continue to do that I
am going to come.'

  `You should have come this morning in the showers.'

  `I did, Master, that was some hours ago.'

  I let my thumb circle the flange of his cockhead and it rubbed the
rough skin at the back of piss slip where the foreskin had slid back on
the slave.

  The slave gasped and a volley of white cum shot out in a three-foot
arch, followed by a second equally impressive arch.

  The slave was breathing deeply.

  `Sorry, Master. Thank you, Master.'

  `And how long to reload again?'

  The slave looked a little bemused but answered, `half an hour to an
hour, Master.'

  I thought to myself that it was going to be interesting looking into
the background of this slave, who would load and shoot with such
regularity with a sole ball and who could see beauty in shit. Perhaps, if
it were to be stated in somewhat better religious terms, after being in
hell, purgatory is not so bad.

  `Again, Master, thank you for taking me out of that mine.'

  The slave looked at the ground as if he had gone too far or had said
too much, even though it was a phrase of thanks.

  It is strange but I love genuine gratitude in a slave who realises his
humble position of servitude to me and all that comes from me for his
benefit, even though by the standards of the material world, what I may
give him from time to time or regularly on a daily basis is little. I
looked at the slave with his eyes downcast.

  `I have said to you that when you speak to me, you look me in the eye.
I won't say it again.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `Do not give me occasion to send you back. It is a mere three hours'
drive away.'

  Stan and I walked out of the shelter of the poplars and we were not
gone fifty paces, when the sound of low whistling was again to be heard.

  We looked at each other and started to laugh quietly. Indeed, in this
strange world, there are many levels of happiness.



  The following day was a work day at the Bank and I had Gus Jennings in
for lunch. He thought it was a follow-up on the reports on the firm which
he was managing for me.

  `How is your new residence coming on?'

  `Slowly but surely, Jonathan. All of Alia's sisters are making it
their mission in life to decorate it and want to train some staff for
her, now that she is `marrying well', as one of them put it.'

  `Avoid decoration like the plague. Take it from me, Gus, take it from
me. Leave it to Alia. Thank heavens I had Pete Downings for the Lemon
Palace'.

   `You wouldn't think of selling a couple of your household slaves,
Jonathan,' Gus said looking at me over the edge of his drink.

  `You know that I don't sell on my stock and the few occasions I have
done so in the past have been, to my mind, mistakes. I seem to get
attached to my slaves, be that good or bad. Maybe it's the ingrained
attitude of centuries here, but Dahrans generally don't seem to regard
slaves as much more than hewers of wood and drawers of water, if you
don't mind me being biblical about it.'

  `Well, at least, I can tell Alia that I did ask you.'

  `She said to ask?'

  `She and her sisters. All of whom say that your slaves are the best in
the country.'

  I thought to myself best fed with a balanced diet, best health care,
best exercised, yes. Best workers, I would not know. Best overall in
Dahra, I somehow doubted. In the back of my mind, I disliked the thought
that in Dahra's social corners, my slaves and possessions were being
talked of and held up as paragons. I supposed it came with the territory
and being dubbed `The Retrainer' by Dahra's slave owners.

  When we got down to the nitty-gritty, I asked him if the source of his
enquiry on Al Vine had been a guy called Sterling?

  `How did you find out that it was Hal Sterling, Jonathan? He is
supposedly enquiring on behalf of the wife back State-side.'

  `Jim Sterling. First lieutenant Jim Sterling.'

  `Not the same guy, Jonathan. A Colonel Hal Sterling.'

  I looked at Gus trying to make sense of this new piece of information.
It sounded as if this Colonel was the uncle from Ohio who had walked in
on his nephew, Jim and Al Vine and had caught them in flagrante delicto.

  I resolved to get Josh Green in the Grand Cayman and his private
investigator contacts working on it as quickly as possible.

  There are, at times, occasions when you can only go so far and this was
one of them. I invited Gus to the Lime Palace for the weekend, saying it
might be his last as a free man for a long time, with his wedding coming
up. He said he would try, as he was trying to close a deal on his new
home.



  As I came back from the bank one evening in July, David Tuttle, the
young engineer who was overseeing the construction of my new Lemon
Palace, came down the steps of the veranda of the Lime Palace all smiles,
followed by Pete Downings.

  `Boss, I took delivery today of one completed Palace. The Lemon Palace
is now ready for occupation! Do you want to take a look?'

  David was clearly beside himself with happiness at the completion of
his first professional job, a multi-million one at that, well inside the
allotted deadline. There was a level of happiness inside him that was
bubbling. It was not for me to dampen it and I said we would walk down to
the Palace -- the afternoon being balmy.



  The next two hours were hours of happiness as I moved from one room to
the next of the Lemon Palace. It was largely unfurnished, but with the
decor and colour schemes in place, everywhere I could see how things
would turn out in my mind's eye.

  Great use had been made of small local tiles in a variety of sizes and
shapes from squared to hexagonal from triangular to trapezoidal. What
pleased me greatly were the intricate and delicate geometrical and floral
shapes in a profusion of colours, particularly blues and greens, but then
each room, particularly the bedroom suites seemed to have its own pastel
shade.

  The entrance foyer was over a thousand square feet of pale marble. I
had put marble as a floor material throughout for coolness and ease of
cleaning. All the rooms on the ground and first floors had double doors
and windows.

  At one stage, I had an arm over Pete Downings', my Head of Household,
shoulders and he radiated happiness at my happiness. For such a quiet
Australian, he has the colours of the rainbow in his mind and his schemes
always seem to end up matching perfectly.

  Each of the bedrooms had been done, as I had first attempted to do at
the Lime Palace but not too successfully, in the style of a Middle
Eastern country. This time with a judicious use of wall tiles, we had got
the balance right.

  `So what did Randy say when you gave him the grand tour,' I jokingly
asked Pete.

  `How did you know that, Boss? Who told you?'

  `The look on your face, Pete. I know you better than you know
yourself.'

  `I think he liked it, Boss, `cos when he wasn't kissing me, he kept
saying that it would blow your mind.'

  `It does, Pete. It does. David has created the masterpiece and you
have completed it.'

  We were standing in a room on the first floor which had a ceiling to
floor glass wall overlooking the new gardens. The sprinklers were just
coming on. I could see some of the slaves running out of way of the
pulsating jets of water. It was an idyllic scene and for me the cause of
great happiness.

  `Things must be running very smoothly for you, Pete and for Komil.'

  `Why do you say that, Boss?'

  I pointed out two unmanned water-wheels in the gardens.

  `Komil put them in Boss because you like them. But we really have had
little cause to seriously punish the slaves of late here.'

  I looked at him. Pete looked at David Tuttle, whose two assistants had
joined us as some stage.

  `Don't tell me that you're using his no-punishment tactics?'

  `Actually, yes, Boss,' Pete replied, `and in nine out of ten cases
it works.'

  `Pete, a good flogging even a small number of strokes will always get
a slave to move. Two strokes alone with a six foot camel cane will be
remembered for a year. It is human nature to want to avoid punishment of
all sorts.'

  `Boss, I agree with you because you are the Boss, but I have also seen
the results of giving the slaves their head to do things they are good at
and for what they are well trained and they enjoy doing.'

  ` `Enjoy doing!' Pete, slaves are here to obey whether they enjoy
doing it or not.'

  `Sir.'

  `So, it's `sir' now, Pete, is it, when you're losing the
argument?'

  `Boss, I am your slave and I enjoy what I do and I work far longer
hours than ever I worked before and all of this is for you as my Master.
If I did not enjoy it as much as I do, I would most likely do less. I try
to get every slave into a similar type job for each one of them. It means
I have to supervise very little and I get a lot more done.'

  I turned to David Tuttle.

  `Your philosophy has had a convert, I think.'

  I put my arm over Pete's shoulder again.

  `Pete, never forget fear as both a deterrent and as an encouragement.
However, that said, whatever system you are using here, it appears to
work.'

  `Thanks, Boss. I know.'

  But I thought to myself that some Lemon Palace slaves have a history of
doing stupid things, being punished for it and doing the same stupid
things again. Not all slaves are that motivated!



  As I breakfasted, I had Flavio, my Chef, come out and I quizzed him on
putting together food for a party of a hundred to launch the new Palace.

  Flavio positively beamed.

  `Will you be able to handle the transition to the new kitchens?'

  `Boss, I chose them with you, remember?'

  `It will be a trial run for you as my new Head of Kitchens.'

  `Boss, it will be a party to remember and the food to be talked about
for years.'

  I was not as convinced as he was in his enthusiasm but over the
following ten days we had two dry-runs so to speak as I entertained two
different dinner parties of twenty each night, and Flavio tested out his
menus and Bob Conrad the use of one slave per guest at the table. It went
swimmingly.



  Gus and Alia's wedding was quite a Dahran affair at their new home
some four miles from the capital city. It was a small palace, and was
very tastefully furnished, at such a short time after its purchase. But
as Alia has a large family including several sisters; they had all helped
get the furnishings.

  Her family's business as dry cleaners meant that they were well known.
Alia looked beautiful as only a bride can look. Gus dressed in a blue
suit looked the perfect groom. It sort of took me by surprise that the
ceremony, which was essentially a civil contract and not a religious one,
was the only one at their palace and meant that Gus could in fact by
Dahran and religious law have a further three wives--if he could support
them socially and financially.

  I did not stay for the full celebrations but made as quick an exit as
politeness would allow. Amid all his excitement, I thought that Gus was
as happy as I had ever seen him. Alia did not feel confident enough to
speak much English, but her Arabic was educated and both she and Gus
thanked me for the gift of their home. I thought that it was a good
long-term investment in a good man. I trusted that time would not prove
me wrong.



End of Chapter 12

To be continued...


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