Date: Wed, 17 Dec 2003 23:46:43 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Special Memories - Chapter 19 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the nineteenth 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.

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The Special Memories by Gerry Taylor

Chapter 19 -- The French Slave

I do not know how Yves Fournier got wind of a single slave at the
Palaces who had not been brought to him on arrival and whom he had not
seen for medical inspection.

We had dinner, he and I and the other medical staff, at least twice a
week, and at least once week with all the overseers and assistant
overseers who were now over twenty in number. Their weekly dinner with me
was the highlight of their week, as they could be seen not just sitting
with the Master but eating a bowl of soup, albeit the same soup as
everyone else that evening, with the Master.

It was well into November when Yves appeared at my study door. I was
going over correspondence with Ben, my secretary slave. Yves had never
actually come into my study-office before, and there was something in his
mien, which made me say to Ben 'We'll finish later' and indicate to him
to leave.

'When were you going to tell me, Jonathan?'

The question was softly hanging on the evening air.

I looked at him, motioned him to one of the deep seats and went to get
us both a large Courvoisier, the cognac I knew he liked. I sat down
opposite Yves, both of us in front of the desk.

'When Jean-Pierre is ready for you, for me and for a new life, Yves.
Prison taught him nothing. The day he got out, he was immediately on his
way to get drugs with the release money he was given.'

'The sentence?'

Yves had this French way of brilliantly summarising entire paragraphs in
single words.

'When you spoke with me that time, I spoke with the Minister of Justice
and that was that. Louis, your ambassador here in Dahra set it up.'

I saw a question mark on his forehead.

'I had the Bank purchase two billion of the TGV bonds for our managed
funds. In fact, we have purchased a further billion -- they're a very
good buy at the moment. I had a prison officer and another insider to be
on the lookout for him in the prison, but with very little practical
success as I have said.'

'He has been safe here in Dahra for the past two months, having the
drugs cleaned out of his system. I still don't know how he got them, or
paid for them in prison. He has been cleaned up, fed, trained, on a
programme to strengthen both his mind and body. He is responding well I
must say. How did you figure it out, may I ask?

'When I heard there was a slave chained to one of the two water wheels
at the Aloe Palace, I went on to the computer. It did not take me long to
check up on recent arrivals. The name Jean-Pierre jumped out at me. The
date of birth as well. Effe as a surname is not that much of a disguise.
I then walked down to the Aloe Palace. Even at two hundred metres
distance, I knew it was he. I sat on one of the benches and from an angle
from behind one of the palm trees looked at him in the distance.'

'You have not spoken with him yet?'

'Much as I love him, no. I wanted to. But at the same time, now I knew
he was safe and sound, I did not want to. It was such a relief in a way.
I just sat looking at him for over an hour, walking inside the water
wheel . No, there was no need for me to talk to him.'

He raised the balloon of cognac, 'to your good health, Jonathan, and to
the right decisions.'

'Yves, a votre sante, to your health and to Jean-Pierre's as well.'

'Where do you go from here, Jonathan?'

'Where do we go from here, Yves? -- and I emphasised the 'we'.

'I have been a caretaker, Yves. Jean-Pierre can come off the water wheel
if that is in his best interests. But what do you want for him that the
Aloe Palace cannot offer him. I think you know, Yves, he will destroy
himself in a year or less, unless he beats his dependency on drugs. To do
that he has to have a strong body and an even stronger mind.'

'I realise that, Jonathan. His strength of character is almost nothing.
I saw on the computer that he has a SIN number. He is now a slave?'

'Yes, effectively. In that way, we can both protect him. Let me have him
called tomorrow evening after work and we can both see him together,
unless you wish to see him alone.'

'Together, Jonathan. Alone, I would not make a single right decision or
judgement.'

'Tomorrow, it is then.'

'A demain. Until tomorrow' and he tossed back the last drains of the
Courvoisier.


The following evening will always be etched in my memory. I had dinner
alone on the veranda. I had the slave Jean-Pierre summoned and had him
stand at 'display' at the end of the table, his back to the courtyard,
for over half an hour as I ate my dinner with only half an appetite.

I had told Yves to come and see me after dinner and that Jean-Pierre
would be there. Yves came to see me all right. He walked across the
courtyard from his surgery. I saw him start. I saw him firm up his back.
I saw the hesitancy in his step. I saw it all.

Yves came and stood behind his son at 'display', and very quietly said,
'Bon soir, Jean-Pierre.'

Had the new slave been hit between the shoulder blades with a baseball
bat, his reaction could not have been greater. Startled, he half-jumped
forward, spun, saw his father, and I am surmising here, he said the first
totally honest exclamation I had heard him say, 'Papa! Papa!', as he
staggered to embrace his father whom just over two months previously he
had so peremptorily dismissed in a visiting room and whose opinions he
had so perfunctorily eschewed.



In that embrace there were two meetings, one being that of the son with
his father, the other being that of the father with the son. The son,
surprised out of his mind, must have thought at a selfish level and at a
human level that his rescue was to hand. I would have hoped he might have
felt some semblance of more than affection for his father.

The trouble with schoolboy French is you can never quite keep up with
rapid-fire conversion, the ellipses of colloquial conversation and the
shorthand of family phrases. There is no doubt, as is my witness,
Jean-Pierre was delighted to see his father. He was not fazed at being
there naked. He was still too untrained not to have reacted, to have
turned his back on his Master, to have allowed himself to embrace another
without his Master's permission. There was a list of things in that one
turning, in that one embrace that he should not have done and did.

The meeting of father with son was a different meeting. Yves knew his
son was there and in that sense he was not subject to the whims of
surprise. I hoped that he felt the embrace of his son as one of warmth
and love and feeling for himself, though I suspect in my own suspicious
mind that the feelings were inward directed by Jean-Pierre towards
himself and not towards his father.

I could see Yves looking at his son more in sorrow than in fatherly
love, as if to say, `so this is what you have finally ended up as --
this is what you have become -- you have fallen so far.'

What I did see was Yves finally untangling Jean-Pierre's arms from
around him, looking at him with an infinite sorrow with which I hope no
human being will ever look at me, putting Jean-Pierre's hands back
behind his head, and poor and all as my French was, I did understand when
he said to his only son, `Turn and face your Master, and stand at
display.'

Yves then came to sit in the chair I had indicated beside me.

There was a look of incredulity on Jean-Pierre's face at his father
sitting down beside me, and coolly accepting a cup of coffee, which I
poured out for him, then engaging in small talk about his day and
afternoon in the surgery.

It was not clear from Jean-Pierre's file, or indeed from his training,
how much actual English he understood outside the basic commands. So, I
had Raoul Sounard, my other French slave, standing by if needed to act as
a translator. I did not want Yves Fournier to be anything other than a
spectator to what might unfold.

When Yves and I had finished our small talk of what he had done during
the day and enjoyed our cup of coffee, I addressed Jean-Pierre Fournier.
As I spoke, his demeanour changed from one of confusion, to astonishment,
to anger, to self-pity, and right back again. His basic training held. I
was not going to embarrass his father any more than necessary as he sat
beside me. Raoul translated slowly and clearly what I had to say.

Jean-Pierre would be assigned duties on the vegetable farm under my
stables manager, Yuriy Obov. If there was the slightest, the slightest,
negative report about him or his attention to work, he would be back on a
water wheel for a month, and then back at farm work, and so on until he
came to fully accept me as his Master and his new status as a slave for
life.

He wanted to speak. The words did not form. His tearful eyes beheld his
father. Yves looked at him and although later he told me that his heart
was bleeding for his son, he knew in his heart of hearts this was the
only practical way I could offer to keep his only son off drugs and
alive. Between having a dead body or a son in prison for unquestionably
long stretches, he favoured having a son who might one day see how much
his father loved him and could in some way truly and fully reciprocate
that love.

It was in this way that the second member of the Fournier family came to
work, albeit as a slave, at the Aloe Palace.

End of Chapter 19