Date: Wed, 10 Dec 2003 10:59:43 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Special Memories - Chapter 11 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the eleventh chapter ex twenty two of a novel about slavery and
gay sex.

Keywords: authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, re-training,
submission, gay, sex

This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its
characters are copyright, and private to and reserved by the author. No
reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.

If you are underage to read this kind of material or if

this material is unlawful for you to read where your

live, please leave this webpage now.

Contact points:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com
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w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Erotic_Gay_Stories

The Special Memories by Gerry Taylor

Chapter 11 -- The Hobart Gangers

That particular Friday, I had to wait until late afternoon for the Grand
Cayman morning time zone to match with Dahran evening time. I first rang
my Bank there to find out the state of my affairs which were very healthy
with over half my assets in cash on deposit around the world. I had the
Bank transfer twenty million euro, effectively three months water income,
to the Buddy Foundation's account.

Then when I got my lawyer, Josh Green on the line, I told him of the
funds transfer and my plans for the Hobart Gangers. He never queried the
why or the wherefore as always and as usual he was a model of efficiency.

Within two days, he had set up an Australian company and brought onto its
Board a very respected, retiring, AFL -- Australian Football League -
official, a former player with the Gangers and another of the present
team whose last season it was.

Over the following weeks, an offer was made to the existing Directors of
the Gangers who were also the shareholders for the entire stock of the
club, which I could not believe was sold to us for less than a million
Australian dollars. The old Directors were of the opinion that the club
would have to fold before the next season even began and were anxious to
get out.

It took another million Australian dollars to bolster up the pension
plan, to get five players over twenty eight of age in the club to resign,
plus the manager. The resigning players ended up on half their salary
with results-based contracts to go out into the highways and byways, to
recruit young talent for the `Roge Harte Young Ganger Clubs', which
were going to be created and which would supply each young hopeful with a
full kit plus a mountain bike and an opportunity to be invited as members
of the Clubs.

It would took just over ten million euro to buy eight new players, all of
whom were either Roge's first or second choices and off-the-cuff
declarations in my study that previous morning, plus the new manager, who
had been Roge Harte's second choice.

As all of this was happening after the closure of the season, it went
relatively unnoticed until a four million euro building programme was
started to replace two stands and put in a spanking new state of the art
club house at the pitch.

When questions were asked, who was behind the new company owning the
club, the stock reply was the Buddy Foundation in the Grand Caymans who
wanted to do something in the memory of one of Tasmania's young greats
who had disappeared mysteriously in Western Australia, Roger F. Harte, in
whose name the new youth clubs were named.

The work on the restructuring of the Hobart Gangers when on apace with
one side result of the dinner with the Sheik, or rather my sitting at his
right-hand side. There was an inward flow of over sixty invitations to
happenings in Dahra over the following month, all of which I declined
politely. Although I did not particularly relish the time spent at my
desk composing courteous refusals, I still thought it was preferable to
exerting myself in endless small talk, while being propelled through
Dahran society.

The Sheik's word was good and fifty billion euro transferred to the Bank
for management and investment. When I rang Charlie Deckam, our Chairman,
in London to tell him, he merely said 'Well done, Jonathan lad, I love to
hear when our branches are working hard at it. That merits a lunch when
next in London!' and he was off the line.

What I was not able to avoid, however, not that I really would have tried
to, were the twenty invitations from my neighbours, who were purchasing
water from me, as a quid pro quo for my dinner with them as my guests.
Each Monday in the months following my springing of the favourable
water-contract on them, there was an invitation to dinner from one or
other of my twenty neighbours.

It was for me an insight into private Dahran families, which would never
have been granted to an outsider. Some of my neighbours kept it to a
'business' dinner with only the other neighbours, who were under water
contract to me. Others -- all incidentally were married, none being
bachelors -- had their wives and children present - for a portion of the
meal. Others had present their wives only, with children being introduced
and then whisked away.

The difficulty in going to such dinners is that you cannot arrive with
one arm as long as the other, as one is wont to say. You have to bring a
present. An upbringing in Europe teaches one to arrive with the
face-saving bottle of wine, but in a country where alcohol is not
publicly consumed, nor to any great level at private dinners, I had
solved the problem by having my Saville Row tailors send me out twenty
extra long lengths of the new soft Mohairs, which are now all the rage.

While most Arabs will dress for comfort and the heat in traditional
dress, all will at times don a western suit for whatever purposes.

After the third or so dinner, with my ever similarly wrapped present
under my arm, there would be broad smiles from the other guests as they
glanced to see the pattern or colour of the Mohair being given to the
host. Thankfully my tailors had followed my instructions in that no two
of the Mohairs were the same.

I did ask Jalal al-Akhri if he was instrumental in organising the series
of dinners and though he never admitted it, skilfully avoiding a direct
answer, he was almost caught out one dinner when I heard one of the
neighbours saying to him, 'Well, Jalal, where are we eating next Monday?'

The courtesy of neighbours is always a pleasure to be enjoyed.

One event occurred, which in hindsight was important. One of my
neighbours had a section of lands, which was generally about a meter or
three feet higher than the rest of his lands. It appeared, as if one
portion of the land closer to the western road had sunk at some stage in
the distant past and the other portion had not.

The water, which was pumped to his lands, arrived at the lower section.
Why he did not have the water arrive to the higher section and have it
flow down to the lower section by force of gravity I do not know. Why he
did not have an electric or solar powered twenty-four hour pump
installed, I know not either.

What my neighbouring landowner did install was a slave-powered water
wheel. It was all of fifteen feet high and eight feet wide and in the
middle was a 'stairs' or unending series of steps going round the
internal circumference. If you have ever seen a mouse or gerbil using one
of those toy wheels, you will have the idea immediately, but on a grander
scale.

As the limousine drew close, I could see the figure of a slave inside the
water wheel plodding 'up' the steps which under his weight caused the
water wheel to move down and a container-bucket of water spilled into a
tank on the upper section of the land.

I told Faisal to stop the limo and got out to view the water wheel up
close. The slave on seeing me approach got out of the inside of the water
wheel and made obeisance to me. I noticed three things -- he was unkempt
and smelly even from a distance of some feet, he had a hut for want of a
better word, a hovel more aptly, at some fifteen paces or so from the
water wheel where he clearly slept at night and he was chained by a fifty
or sixty foot length of light chain by his left leg to ring, on what
looked like a wrecking crane's concrete ball.

I looked. I observed. I left. The slave was too foul smelling for me to
approach the water wheel more closely and when I returned to the
limousine, I saw that the water wheel had again started its circular
motion.

My host was Musab al-Atti who, apart from his farm and lands, had a
furniture business with various international franchises in the capital
city. In after-dinner conversation, I enquired about the water wheel and
was told, that in fact he had two. One on the way into his residence,
which I had seen on the way in and the other on the far side of the
property. Both were in his own words 'punishment wheels', for slaves who
were not working hard enough in the opinion of their overseers.

When on holidays in Spain, Musab had seen two water wheels, one working
and one broken. He had bought the broken one `for a camel's turd' as he
put it -- for a song - and had it shipped back, reassembled to working
condition and had increased and modified one in size to allow a ten foot
inside hollow for a slave. He then had one of his factories build him a
working model of the one I had seen.

'Why not simply install an electric pump, Musab?'

He did not answer the question directly, but merely replied, 'I love
wood, perhaps because we have so little of it in Dahra. I love seeing
wood used in machinery. The wheels themselves are totally wooden, even
the nails are wooden dowels and are powered by those two slaves who are
either being punished, or if no one requires punishment, by those two
slaves who each month produce the least. They have a quota of water to
pump to the high lands each day. If they work hard for six hours, they
can do it in six. If they are lazy it will take them twelve. The wheel
tells the slave that he must produce for the Master.'

'And what happens, Musab, if the slave does not reach the daily quota at
all?'

'It never happens, as the slave knows he will not be fed that evening
until the quota is reached. It is as simple as that.'

I was quite intrigued. I enquired the price of a wheel and when I heard.
I ordered eight of them, two for the Aloe Palace and six for the Lime
Palace. At worst, they would be follies -- ornaments on the landscape
without a practical purpose -- at best, they might find a purpose.

When I told the overseers at one of our regular meetings, Stan said
'Water wheels, Boss? Water wheels!' -- clearly not impressed. But I
thought that they would find a purpose in our gardens, particularly the
water-gardens and add a nice touch and if the worst came to the worst,
one of them could be a punishment wheel for a couple of days, for a
recalcitrant or lazy slave! Little did I realise how that thought would
crystallise later on and become the visible and perpetual sign of my
anger.

It was in the first fortnight of April that I told Roge Harte that his
old Club had been sold and the manager and some of the players had left.
He had said a bit wistfully, 'well, Boss, that's it then. All good things
come to an end.'

But when I told him of the AFL guy who had come onto the new Board and
the two players whom he knew, he looked at me strangely, but said
nothing.

I told him that the Club was thinking of setting up the 'Roge Harte
Ganger Youth Clubs' and that made him blink a lot, as he tried to hold
back the tears.

'Are you behind all of this, Boss?' he finally said very quietly looking
at me half sideways.

'I think a guy who loves the game is the inspiration behind it, Roge. Who
else would buy a clapped-out club, if he did not live for the sport and
the game and not be bothered with matches won and lost? Would you not
agree?'

He nodded, but his eyes were toward the floor and I could not see his
face properly.

`I think, Roge, the Club is going to need someone who can put together a
training programme for fourteen to seventeen year olds for these Youth
Clubs, so that at least a few new players can come through each year -
someone who knows the game inside out and who might have the time on his
hands to do it properly.'

He nodded again and was sort of biting his lower lip, but not looking up
at me.

`Can you think of anyone, Roge? Don't hurry yourself. Let me know. You
may get an idea or two yourself, when you are running on the treadmill in
the gym or out training yourself at the pool.'

Roge swallowed hard and said, 'Yes, Master.'

I looked at him.

'Master?'

'Yes, Master.'

'If you call me that, Roge, I will exercise my right of Master, not just
my rights as the boss of this Palace. There's no going back on that
decision.'

'Yes, Master,' and the golden boy of my dreams knelt down before me,
looking up at me, slowly undid the belt of my trousers, pulled down the
zip, and shucked down my trousers and boxers and taking my flaccid penis
in his hand, brought his lips to it and kissing it gently said, 'Thank
you, Master, for your patience with me.'

And then he carefully put my clothes back in place.

In my time, I have loved hard and I have loved gently. I have fucked
relentlessly and I have fucked with the light touch of a warm summer
breeze. I have caused a little pain from time to time to induce a greater
pleasure. I have caused so much pleasure that pain has followed like day
the night.

That night I personally invited Roge to come to me after dinner. I told
Komil to find another for the night. It would be difficult enough with
Roge on his own, without having Komil standing sentry in the background
until his nightly bun was well and truly buttered by me. When he
approached that evening, it was a different slave to the one who had
stood hands on hips in that exercise room of the slave centre those ten
weeks previously.

He appeared confident in his stance, yet unsure at the same time. His
body was that of a man-boy, yet at the same time it was that of a
boy-man. His levator scapulae muscles from shoulders to neck showed the
results of ten weeks work in the gym. His hairless chest had the
definition of one who is in training, with the little valley in between,
which forms between two perfectly formed divisions of the chest.

At twenty six years of age, Roge was showing the best of his features
with abdominal muscles well and truly formed into an emerging six-pack.
At just six feet tall, over the months that six-pack would firm up, but
right now it was invitingly rising and dipping between ridge of flesh,
hard yet soft, topping a navel which was firmly flat against his belly,
hardly a depression at all.

When we got to my quarters and my bedroom, he walked in surely, but
hesitantly took a deep breath and said `Boss?'

It was more a question than a statement.

I looked at him in his perfection.

`Boss, I don't think I can change inside me, the way you might want me
to be.'

`And how do you think I want you to change, Roge?'

`I know, Boss, that I still like women. These weeks have been great. But
they have not changed me. I am not going to lie to you. Not even after
all you have done for me and for the Club.'

`Do you think I have been trying to buy your favour, Roge, by helping
the Club?'

`At first, I thought so, Boss, now I am not too sure.'

`Ah, the first step on the road to wisdom -- not being too sure. I know
you are straight, Roge, and always will be. I want you to know, to show
you how much I can love you. I want to show you how much I can love you
for what you are -- the totally straight guy who loves the game, the
sheilas and the beer, I think you said.'

`Honest?'

`Yes, Roge, honestly. But would you object to me loving you as I know
how and of making you feel half of what I feel when you are around. Are
you afraid that I am going to hurt you somehow?'

`No, Boss. It's just...it's just I'm afraid I might end up liking it
somehow and forget that I like the sheilas a lot more than the guys, even
if I were never to see another sheila around here ever,' and he gave a
little laugh at the concept of lack of female company.

`Stop worrying, Roge, you and I are going on a voyage of exploration
where you have never gone before and where I have gone frequently. You
will discover tonight, if I am right, things you never knew before, maybe
never wanted to know before, things you will love for the rest of your
life and at the same time that you also still love women.'

I took Roge by the hand and put his hand on my chest.

`Now, Roge, undress me.'

He blinked and he started by taking off my shirt. His fingers were warm
against my belly as he undid my pants, which dropped to the floor. My
boxers were tenting and as I stepped out of my shoes and shuffled off the
fallen trousers, Roge swallowed hard and pulled down my boxers. My cock
was half swollen and just inches from his face. I let him rise and
putting an arm around his waist led him to the bed.

`Roge, just relax and let me do the work tonight.'

I don't know if he caught the message that tonight was my active night
and that other nights might be his.

On the bed, we lay on our sides facing each other. I let my left hand run
over his side and back and buttocks.

`If I touch you anywhere tonight, Roge, that you don't want to be
touched, you say so and I'll not touch you there.'

`Can I touch you, Boss?' he finally said.

I smiled at him and said, `I thought you would never ask, Roge.'

He put his hand under my arm and onto my back and left it there, not
knowing really what to do with it.

My own hand was moving in small circles up his back and then I felt his
hand move down towards the small of my back, reach out with its fingers
towards the cheeks of my backside and again rest there without moving.

For quite some time, I touched Roge all over his back and front and down
his belly and between his legs. When I touched his penis, it was erect
and its uncut head was weeping a thick and plentiful viscous precum. I
brought it to my lips and it was sweeter than sweet and a single drop was
sufficient to wet both my lips it was so thickly liquid. I touched
Roge's lips and inserted my finger, which touched the tip of his tongue.
His lips moved and he sucked my finger.

My lips touched his jaw-line and moved to under his ear and up and over
the cartilage of the ear and into its depths. He gasped, as if it were
the first time anyone had ever licked the inside of his ear and I felt
his penis stir.

I did not think that Roge was ready for voluntary kissing yet, plain or
French, so I pushed his body away with two fingers and let my lips wander
over his chest, licking and nibbling. His right nipple was small and firm
and golden-brown, but the centre of the aureole was an underlying pink. I
sucked it gently, then harder, and nipped it gently with my teeth until
his back arched. I repeated the action on the other until he arched with
similar results -- a gasp and another stir of his now more than firmly
erect penis, whose tipped wetness was pressing against my lower stomach.

I let my tongue wander down his six-pack and he giggled at the tickle,
but he gasped again when I sucked his navel and almost got my teeth to
work on his flatness, but it was too level with his hard stomach muscles.

It was not more than an inch to the top of his cock and I took its
wetness in my mouth pushing back the encircling foreskin down the shaft.
While before Roge had always closed his eyes when I had sucked him off on
the veranda, now I could see his eyes were following my actions. I
adjusted my body so that I was now lying in the opposite direction to
his. An eleven so to speak, as opposed to a sixty nine. I cupped his
really warm balls and let them rest in the palm of my hand as I sucked my
way down his cock.

Suddenly, I felt my own hard cock being touched. It was touched with the
hardness of a finger, not with the softness of lips. It was being
explored by a stranger in that unknown groin land. I eased up on my
sucking of his penis and just kept it hard and wet and happy in my mouth.

The finger had become two and then had become three, as I calculated the
touch. And then my balls were lifted and then dropped, as if he had gone
too far on a battlefield and thought it better to retreat to safer and
firmer ground.

Roge's fingers were now touching the wet top of my cock. A finger was
touching the slit and then just under the tip and then around the flange.
And then his fingers were holding the shaft of my penis and I felt the
warmth of his breath on the tip of my penis a split second before I felt
the enveloping warmth of his lips. A novice was now beginning to imitate
a Master.

I gave him lesson one on how to suck just the head of the cock. He
learned lesson one and followed me into lesson two and upwards. I felt
like Scarlatti or Clementi composing exercises for a willing pupil. For
over an hour, I let him learn his finger, lip and tongue lessons on my
upright, as I taught him on his grand.

Never once did Roge say stop, and when I let my fingers wander between
his now splayed legs and run the nail of my index finger down his
perineum at the back of his ball sack, I knew that he was too close to
coming for me to give him any further and greater lessons in sexual love.

So, I stopped my deeper perineum explorations, cupped his balls firmly
and resumed a very tightly focussed sucking of his trembling penis. He
came with force on the nineteenth or twentieth suck with spurts, which
hit the back of my throat with machinegun regularity five or six times.

Roge was a novice at sucking, but there is a point where even the sucking
of a novice pushes a Master over the edge of the cliffs of climax and I
came quickly in his mouth. I was half thinking to myself that he would
not swallow it. But Australians are tough and brave if anything, and as I
turned to straighten up beside him, I could see him wetting his lips and
making the final swallows of my cum.

`Roge, you are one beautiful and gentle lover. Where did you learn to
suck like that?'

`I had this Master whose every move I was trying to follow,' he said
with a grin.

`Tonight, Roge, you have learned a little more about love that you did
not know before, I think. You are still the same Roge, with the same
sexual orientation as two hours ago, but a little wiser. I only hope I
pleased you as much as you have pleased me.'

`A slave's gotta do, what a slave's gotta do', he half laughed at his
little joke. `And Boss, yes, I liked what you did. You sure know how to
suck a guy off,' he said, again with a grin.

`Roge, other nights there will be other lessons. But tonight, you have
learned that I will not hurt you. I will lead you and let you follow as
slowly, or as quickly as you can. That will be up to you in a way. Now
what do you say, if we both try to get a wink of sleep and see what the
morning brings.'

Twenty minutes later, Roge, the boy-man who had left some of his
boyishness charms behind and become more a man-boy, was sleeping soundly
beside me and snoring ever so softly as he snuggled up to the warmth of
my body.

Those first nights with Roge Harte I shall ever remember as treasured,
fond and cherished memories in the languid and gentle taking of Roge
Harte's body, of his virginity and dare I say it, of his love as he
finally shared it with me. Because at the end of those long seventy days
of his training, the longest I had ever spent on personally training a
slave, he no longer loved the game, the sheilas and the beer. He loved
the game, the sheilas, the beer and me, his Master.

I do not quite know if it was a game in his uncluttered mind to play hard
all the time against the opponent for as long as possible and when no
further points could be scored, no win ensured, a greater opposition
having to be recognised, then and only then to make a full capitulation.

Roge Harte put together over the summer months a youth training programme
to end all youth training programmes in Aussie Rules football. In time,
it was copied in various other clubs. By the time the new season had
started, we were down just over two thousand mountain bikes given out to
fourteen to seventeen-year olds and we had no less than nine Roge Harte
Young Gangers Clubs up and running each being managed by a former player
who had come to the end of a footie career, in their majority from the
Gangers, but who were now or still fiercely loyal to a Club, which had
taken on a new lease of life.

When the new season started, two things happened, besides a colour
brochure being produced, as well as a new website created, the first was
that every single Gangers supporter arriving for the first match of the
season got two free T-shirts and every kid got a tray of a fizzy drink
and popcorn with an invitation to every fourteen to seventeen-year old to
collect their mountain-bike if they had not already done so becoming a
member of the nearest Roge Harte Young Gangers Club.

That bit of marketing cost just under half a million, but when two
thousand kids joined up, the future of the Club was secure as to talent
and when the Club won its first three matches in a straight row,
something not done in over ten years, the team was on its way to success.

I wish I could say that the Hobart Gangers were a financial success. They
were not. Over the years their financial losses amounted to a couple of
million. In terms of the Lime Palace finances, that was the equivalent of
less than two weeks' income from the water and worth every penny of it
for the pleasure it brought me.

Admitted the team did well in the various leagues in which it
participated and Roge's joy was to see such a number of potentially good
young players come up through the ranks.

Roge Harte had one strange request. It was that I bed him once a month,
which I did with pleasure, to both his pleasure and mine once he had
learned some of the common love techniques.

I asked him why.

He replied 'So that I never forget what you have done, Master.'

I said, 'On one condition.'

He cocked his head inquisitively.

'That you go back to calling me 'Boss'. There are quite enough who don't
know me and who call me 'Master'.'

'Boss, you have a deal,' he said with a wicked Tasmanian grin worthy of
any Aussie Rules footballer.

Those summer months were a settling down period for Roge, who having
prepared the training schedules for the Young Gangers thousands of miles
away, became very adept in another field -- the sexual training of the
slaves, as I shall mention elsewhere.

End of Chapter 11