Date: Sat, 15 Jan 2005 18:24:16 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seventh Desert - Chapter 16 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor

This is the sixtheenth  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 16 -- The approval of decisions

  `Roge, how is Jake's induction coming along.'
  Roge Harte, my slave in charge of details and training matters about my
team of Australian footballers stood before me `at rest'.
  `Fine, Boss. I brought him to the medics as you said and he got the all
clear. He has a perfect bill of health and perfect eye-sight. Two days ago,
his teeth were done by Dr. Cal, so he is a bit sore. I've shown him the
ropes about our team.'
  I smiled to myself at the way Roge said `our team' -- the Hobart Gangers, a
source of long joy to me and a financial loss-maker, but a superbly run club
due to Roge's constant supervision.
  `Where is Jake now?'
  `I have him looking over last year's full results.'
  `Bring him to the retraining room.'
  I saw the normal smile on Roge's face disappear.
  `Yes, Boss,' he said, as he swallowed.
  `It's time that Jake Carter found out who his Master is around here. You
know that he has not been trained in the compounds and that will have to be
remedied as well.'
  `Boss...boss, he's a good kid...he always does what he is told.'
  Roge was beginning to hyperventilate.
  `Are you even remotely trying to challenge me, Roge?'
  `No, Boss, definitely not. Definitely not. I remember my own visit to the
training room only all too well.'
  `I think you have a soft spot for one of my slaves, Roge Harte.'
  `Maybe, Boss.'
  `Well, your choice, Roge. You can keep your soft spot for Jake Carter or
you can keep your present job. I need Supervisors to know where their
loyalties are and that they are able to put slaves in their place whether
they know my mind, their Master's mind or not.'
  `Boss, I am totally loyal to you. Totally and utterly.'
  `Good. Now get Jake Carter across to the retraining room. You remember how
you were positioned there?'
  `Yes, Boss. I'll never forget it.'
  `Same position. Get help from Jess Tollman if you need it and let me know
when the slave has been hanging there an hour.'
  `Yes, Boss. I won't need any help. Jake trusts me and is very docile.'
  The Roge Harte who left me was a lot unhappier than the one who had
arrived. I don't ask my slaves to conceal their feelings from me for such I
would deem to be hypocrisy. Normally, I prefer to see naturally happy
slaves. When they are sad or unhappy, they are then much easier to spot. But
overall, I am happy as long as the slaves and Supervisors do immediately
what they are ordered to do and they are actually ordered very few times, as
work practices are permanently in place.

  About an hour and a quarter later, Roge Harte arrived back almost at a
canter.
  `Boss, the hour is up. You told me to tell you,' he said when I looked up
at him from my desk.
  `Tell me what?'
  `That Jake Carter has been in the retraining room for an hour, Boss.'
  `Positioned as you were once on the steel frame?'
  `Yes, Boss, exactly the same with two alligator clips on his nipples.
Exactly the same. But Boss, I don't understand.'
  `What?'
  `When I was there, all you wanted me to do was to recognise you as the
Master. And I cursed you left, right and centre. And then you made me see
that it was for my own good. Jake already recognises you as his boss and
master, and he hasn't said a bad word about you.'
  `There you have it, Roge. Does he recognise me as his Boss and Master, for
his own good, or for mine?'
  `Yes, Boss.'
  Intellectual argument is not one of Roge's fortes and I left it at that.
  `Well, I suppose I had better go across and see how he's getting on.'
  On hearing that, Roge Harte was around the desk in a flash to pull back my
high-backed leather seat as I stood up and came out from behind the desk.

  The air-conditioning was working perfectly in the retraining room to keep
it warm enough, for a slave without clothes not to feel such cold as might
cramp muscles and not too warm as would cause a slave being constantly
punished to dehydrate.
  Jake Carter was hanging from the seven by seven foot, steel frame, his
wrists firmly velcroed to the upper bar. His feet were splayed to each of
the uprights where his ankles were loosely tied, allowing quite literally
only his big toes to each be on a small support. If he lost his footing,
even a single toe-hold, his entire body weight would be on one or both of
his wrists. That in itself would not be too bad a punishment, but it would
cause his body to rock and move and that was where the alligator clips,
though small, would come into full play on the central nub of each of his
nipples.
  As I went in, I could smell a fear emanating from his pores. There was a
dribble of perspiration down from his arm pits and an involuntary tear had
dried on his right cheek. As I went in the door of the retraining room his
eyes were on me.
  `Master, Boss...' was all I heard whispered as if the use of his lungs would
cause him to lose his precarious balance.
  `I see you are beginning to learn what it is to be obedient.'
  `Yes, Master,' was the whispered reply.
  `Let us see how obedient you have become. Lift your right toe off its
platform support.'

  The slave tried to somehow use his arm muscles to pull down on his wrists
restraints and managed to raise his right toe for some seconds from the
small platform.
  `Master.'
  `Now the left toe.'
  The slave repeated the effort. Perspiration was now pouring down the
slave's chest and from his arm pits.
  `Master,' was the repeated whisper, as his left big toe fought to find
again its support.
  `Roge, bring me over one of the three foot camel canes.'
  Roge ran over to a stack of the canes by the wall, chose one and was back
to me in seconds. His eyes were so wide, the irises were almost lost in a
sea of white.
  As Jake Carter's body was hanging in an X shape, his balls and penis were
at my waist level. I let his balls hanging low in their scrotum rest on the
palm of my left hand.
  `Two strokes of the cane on a slave's balls, never more to date, are
normally sufficient to make a slave lose his toe-holds. Then you swing and
then those little alligator clips teach you obedience more quickly than
anything else.'
  `Master, I am your slave. I am obedient. Please don't. Please don't.'
  The whispers were being forced from the lungs in strained bursts of air.
  The slave's penis seemed to stiffen slightly and a stream of dark yellow
urine issued and splattered on the floor.

  At the first stroke of the cane on this balls, Jake Carter lost his
toe-holds on the frame and jerked and hanged from his wrists as he
frantically tried to find the side bar where his toes might once again gain
a hold. By luck more than expertise, he got his right toe on its support.
  His chest was heaving as his lungs sucked in air. His eyes were on me and
thought they were, there was no recrimination, or anger or hate in them. If
anything, there was simply confusion and fear.
  I indicated to Roge Harte to get him down off frame and as Jake did, he
collapsed on the floor as muscles failed to respond quickly enough in
synaptic sequence. He crawled the two foot divide between me and him and,
with his head on the floor, took my right foot and put it on the back of his
neck.
  I looked at Roge.
  `I told him to do that, Boss, at his first opportunity if he wanted to
serve you as a slave. If you let me, Boss, I'll help train him and break him
in. As you ordered, I already taken his cherry, and I'm teaching him other
sex things, you know.'
  Roge is not comfortable with anything sexual other than heterosexual
activity, so heaven knows what he has been teaching Jake Carter.
  I took my foot off the slave's neck and told him to kneel up.
  `Do you want to say anything to me?' I asked.
  The slave glanced for a second at Roge Harte who nodded to him.
  `Master, I want to serve you and be your slave.'
  I looked at him and at Roge. I thought the slave would have resisted more
before breaking. Apparently not so I contented myself by saying, `For each
of the next five weeks, you will spend the mornings of each week in each of
the five training compounds, and in the afternoons you will help your
supervisor. Is that clear?'
  Roge nodded to the slave, as if the slave might miss the proper reply, and
Jake Carter answered `Yes, Master.'
  `Bring him back to me in five weeks time,' I said to Roge.

  They say a change is as good as a rest and in my mental musings, I thought
that I would seek a solution to something that had been on my mind for some
time. This brought me to the offices of a firm of real estate agents in the
capital city. I had always seen their sign and the two plasma screens in
their shop front window as Faisal had driven me home in the evenings. But I
had never before had need of their services. On a whim one afternoon on
leaving the Bank, I told Faisal to drop me off at their offices and to wait
for me.
  What struck me immediately about the real estate offices on entering them
was the lack of properties on display. There were only two plasma screens
which changed their display even ten or so seconds showing the bricks and
mortar up for sale.
  `Good evening, sir. May I help you?'
  A stylishly dressed woman had come from behind the reception area in
traditional Arab dress.
  `I am interested in seeing what property you might have for sale on the
coast.'
  `I shall get one of our Directors. Who shall I say?'
  `Martin. Jonathan Martin. I work at the bank down the street.'
  `Please be seated, sir.'

  In less than a minute, a young man in his late twenties in a western style
suit was out to greet me.
  `Sir Jonathan Martin?' he queried.
  `Yes,' I replied to the built-in question. The young Director had made the
connection.
  `Masid al-Karif, Sir Jonathan, at your service. How can our firm be of
assistance to you?'
  `I am looking for a property -- more a land site than a building -- on the
coast. Something private, secluded, on a beach. Not too expensive.'
  `Indeed, sir. I can have one of our Directors have a portfolio prepared
for you and sent it tomorrow to you at the bank. You are at Deckams? Are you
not, Sir Jonathan.'
  `You are not a Director of the firm?' I said with a smile. `The
receptionist said she was getting me a Director.'
  `I am sorry, Sir Jonathan, but the two Directors have already gone home. I
am only a property assessor. I have to see every property that comes on our
books, confirm its measurements, and get its details ready for our
publications.'
  I looked at the young man who now seemed uncomfortable at having to deal
with me on his own. I like to think that I can read people's body language
and his body language implied problems with his Directors if I walked out
there and then. But did I actually need Directors when the very person who
knew every property on the firm's books was standing before me?
  `Can you tell me now how many properties do you have on your books which
are actually on one of the coast's beaches?'
  `A beachfront property?'
  `Yes.'
  `It will all be on the computer. I will check and tell you immediately,
Sir Jonathan.'
  `Let's make this simple, Masid. It is Masid?'
  `Yes, sir.'
  `Where is your computer?'
  He looked at me a second and quick on the uptake, said, `This way, Sir
Jonathan.'

  Masid al-Karif's office had a place for every file. And every file was in
its place. He adjusted a chair in front of his desk for me and sat himself
down in front of his slim-line computer monitor, as I made myself
comfortable. He half-turned the monitor so that I could see it.
  `We have just over two hundred properties at the moment on our books, Sir
Jonathan and you want one on a beach, or on the coast.'
  He typed away for some seconds and hit a return key.
  `We have seven properties on, or near a beach or coast.'
  `Let me have some details.'
  The first two were commercial and of no interest. The third just outside
the capital city and the fourth way up to the north.'
  `We do cover the entire Sheikdom, Sir Jonathan,' he murmured by way of
excuse.
  Looking at the screen, he then said, `I don't think the next property
would be suitable. It's just a burnt out shell,' and he adjusted the screen
slightly to show what once must have been a two storeyed whitewashed house
whose blackened walls were a testimony to the awesome power of fire.
  `Tell me more about this property, Masid.'
  `The house burned down two years ago, according to my notes; an electrical
fault in the garage. It is owned as a weekend property by a widow, who has
some commercial property here in the capital city. Two hundred metres from
the beach. There is a quarter mile of beach front. You can see there is a
sea-inlet not far from the house which is on about two hundred hectares of
desert land, just off the main road to the South. It is thirty miles south
of the capital city. The nearest house though, Sir Jonathan, is about two
miles away.'
  As I listened, I thought to myself that this was precisely what I needed
for the plan fermenting in my mind. A burnt-out shell on five hundred acres,
with a cove and a beach, and quite isolated.
  `What is the asking price?'
  `The lady is looking for three quarters of a million euro.'
  `Is that a fair price for desert land that far from the capital city?'
  Again that uncomfortable look.
  `Perhaps the lady is being a bit optimistic, Sir Jonathan.'
  `A lot optimistic, I think, Masid. Please make her an offer of half a
million euro for the property, on two conditions.'
  `Which are, Sir Jonathan?' the firm's property assessor was all ears.
  `One, that the deal is signed tomorrow. Two, that you get the commission
on the sale. Staff do get commission here?'
  `Sales staff, yes, Sir Jonathan.'
  `Tell your Directors it took all your powers of persuasion to keep me here
and to sell me a property that had not moved off your books in what? Two
years?'
  Masid al-Karif was now grinning.

  The following afternoon at four p.m., I signed a cheque for half a million
euro and was the owner of a beachfront property.

  Two other things happened about this time; the first involved David Tuttle
and brings a smile to my face every time I think of it. David had been my
Construction Manager on my new home, the Lemon Palace and had been a thorn
in the side of Annan and Annan, the Dahran architects who had designed it.
  David still had a suite at the Lemon Palace and would dine with me each
evening, when he was there. One evening, he came in wearing a grin from ear
to ear, sat down at the table and flicked open his serviette with a
flourish. It was Cal Thorson, our dentist, who picked up immediately on this
display of contentment.
  `David, are you going to let us in on what has you so happy?'
  David looked round the table expectant of his reply as one who is lord of
all he surveys.
  `This morning I was unemployed. This evening I am now employed.'
  There was a round of applause from all at table, including myself, and we
all raised our glasses `To David Tuttle and his new job'.
  `So who would employ an unemployed Construction Manager like yourself,'
Cal pressed, seeking for more information.
  `I have been headhunted by no less than Annan and Annan as their new Chief
Construction Manager at a salary well into six figures, plus a bonus equal
to a quarter of what they will get for bringing in projects early.
Apparently, they think that if I brought in the Lemon Palace on time, I can
do the same for some of their other projects.'
  `Well done, David, I have no doubt you will do splendidly for them,' I
said with all sincerity.
  `Do you mind, Jonathan, if I stay on here at the Lemon Palace for a
while?'
  `David, this is your home in Dahra. I would be sorry to see you leave, to
say nothing of two slaves who seem to like you a lot.'
  `Will you sell them to me?'
  `No, I don't as a rule sell my slaves, David, as you know. Aziz here got
some when he set up house and I sold some to your cousins. But even that I
half-regret now.'
  Looking down at Aziz, my Head of Household at the Aloe Palace, nibbling as
he normally did at his food, I saw him smile at me.
  `Aziz, you have never bought any slaves at all. Why not?' I said.
  `Jonathan, I have all I need in slaves. My arm would not be able to use a
camel cane more than I do at present,' and those assembled at dinner smiled
at his effort at Dahran humour.
  David excused himself early from dinner and as he left the dining room, he
whispered in my ear, `I have to find both Zoran and Jan. I have been as
horny as anything since I got back. Good news definitely makes a bloke
horny.'
  I raised an eyebrow and he was gone in search of slaves and sexual
respite, in the appropriate order. I thought there might be something to
what he said in that we tend to lose the sexual urge under pressure or loss
and gain our libido again, when totally relaxed, on a winning streak and
back in the saddle of control.
  In his own way, David Tuttle had also re-focused on the slavedom of the
two slaves who did his bidding. Slaves were there to serve in all its
meanings and nothing else. When other attributes were added to slavedom,
trouble was bound to brew as surely as night followed day.
The second matter involved Todd Allen, a Supervisor slave who was in charge
of the morning delivery of vegetables to the markets.

End of Chapter 16

To be continued ...

Contact points:
e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com
w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/
w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories

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 enjoy the story-line, do tell your friends to subscribe to the
mailing list by sending an e-mail to
erotic_gay_stories-subscribe@yahoogroups.com