Dahran

This is the sixteenth 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 Dahran Way

Chapter 16 The importance of reward and punishment

Niko Ziel

Upon the arrival of a new batch of slaves at the Lemon Palace, I give my little speech. I am well-known for it and I know it off now by heart. I can actually remember the first time I gave it.

We were standing in the first compound. The five slaves had arrived and were about to be settled into a ritual of training.

They had had their waist-handcuffs restraints removed and under the direction of their minders had been shit, showered, douched and had their hair trimmed in the style of the Palace. They had been cleaned up, watered, fed and liberally coated with Aloe milk-sap against the Dahran sun.

Rob Kuiper and Niko Ziel, the overall joint-trainers in charge of the compounds, had the five slaves lined up. Niko looked over at me and I took my cue.

`Today is the first day of your life in my service and of your training. You are here to please me, nothing else, and in time, strange as it may seem to you now, you will please me, doing useful work -- work, which you will get to like.'

At this point, I paused to let my words sink in and the translators catch up.

I have seen your criminal histories and they do not interest me. Here in my hand' -- and I held up a sheet of paper -- is a blank sheet of paper. That goes on top of your criminal record. Your record will never be referred to again.'

`You now have a clean sheet in this Palace. If you wish you can even change your name and whatever name you chose, will be your new name.'

`Serve me. Serve me well, Keep your sheet clean and you will enjoy my pleasure. If you do not serve me well, you still have each one ball left to offer me.'

I waited again for the translators to get the speech across. They too would soon know it off by heart.

It is very difficult to be silent. It is very difficult to keep silent. Slaves are no different. In starting the techniques, they are told to keep silent, once. Just once.

Invariably, someone says something. It has never been otherwise. There is always either someone, who is wilful or a wise guy.

The very first day I gave what, in time, would be my set speech was no different. One of the slaves, the Serb, said something. It could have been a swear word, a curse; whatever; it was heard clearly.

I could see from my angle that the Serb slave was surprised when Rob Kuiper walked over and beckoned him out of line to follow to a low-trestled vaulting-horse type apparatus in the centre of the compound.

The proverbial pin could be heard to drop.

Rob pointed to a spot beside the vaulting horse. Niko went to the other side of the vaulting horse and indicated to the Serb to come forward to the apparatus. Holding his index and middle fingers aloof for all to see, something akin to a victory signal, Niko reached forward over the apparatus and putting these two fingers on the Serb's right shoulder, pulled him forward over the apparatus, his bum facing his comrades, his arms half supporting himself on the apparatus.

The inferences were clear. The overseer did not need to use more than two fingers -- minimal force -to get the slave to obey and secondly, the Serb, had he wished or dared, had the freedom not to comply at all. He chose to comply.

In the meantime, Niko had walked over to one of the walls of the compound and took down a four- foot camel-cane, a vicious instrument on a good day. A bloodily cruel one, on a bad day.

Niko held up his left hand to the four remaining slaves displaying five spread fingers. He stood to one side of the vaulting horse and when the Serb slave looked at him, he repeated the five finger gesture and before the eye could follow, had delivered the first of a full-blooded cut of the camel-cane across the Serb exposed buttocks.

The Serb roared with the pain and roared a further four times in quick succession though the last two were more strangled than full bodied roars -- to be left breathing very heavily over the apparatus as the pain of the caning was absorbed by his body. It was to the credit of the Serb that he did not try to move off the vaulting horse. Had he done so, the punishment would have been repeated from the start every time he would move off it.

What was evident to myself and the trainers was that my five new slaves had been introduced by expert hands at al-Qatim to the basics of slave punishment as applied in Dahra. They had learned during their initial stay at the seaport to take up a required position when commanded and to endure punishment without attempting to avoid it -- and probably learned it at the cost of many a stroke. Above all, they had learned the painful lesson that any violent resistance on their sides would be met with the harshest punishment. And like the sword of Damocles, I had the threat of total castration hanging over their heads. I was grateful to Ahmed al-Atti and his assistants for their initial breaking of the prisoner slaves, which saved my trainers many a headache and let them concentrate on turning stunned and passive slaves into able-bodied, hard-working and submissive slaves..

Rob walked back to the wall and replaced the camel-cane and returning to the Serb slave, ran his hand down the perspiring back of the slave and over the five red zebra-like weals on the slave's buttocks. He held up his hand again in silence and smacked it down hard on the Serb's buttocks. The Serb bounced up straight.

A punishment had been carried out when an infringement had occurred. Its meaning was not lost on any of the other slaves. No nonsense, or else!

The first day of training had begun well. The heavy breathing of the Serb slave was the loudest noise in absolute silence reigning in the compound.

Niko then motioned the five slaves over to a large table in the centre of the compound. Standing upright on top of it were several of the smallest size of butt-plugs I had purchased at Shariff Khan's establishment and a jar of lubricant. Also, rather ominous to behold, one very large and thick butt-plug next to its lesser counterparts.

Niko pointed at the first slave in row, the Italian and indicated for him to stand next to the table. Then he slapped the surface and waved at the slave, who slowly lowered his upper body on the table. Niko went behind him and tapped his legs apart, until the other slaves were greeted by the sight of a very tight and clenched anus.

The Italian's eyes were riveted on the plugs and when Niko seized one of the smaller ones and put on lubrication, a small sigh of relief escaped from his lips. Even well-lubricated and only two centimetres wide and ten long, the first butt-plug took all of two minutes for Niko to insert into the slave's back passage. When told to rise and step back, the Italian's gait showed the decidedly uncomfortable feeling from a place that had never been previously stretched, or plugged, or tested with more than possibly his own finger, let alone a hard rubber contraption.

As all five slaves complied with the order to bend down and accept the first -- though by no means the last -- butt-plugs in their lives, the larger specimen did not need to be put to use that day.

Niko had them all lined up and next to the compound wall.

`Now, five rounds of jogging round the compound,' he said. He jogged a few paces in front of them, stopped, turned, held up five fingers and then indicated the circumference with a wave. While not daring to utter a sound of complaint, his five candidates' faces showed clearly what they thought about their upcoming ordeal.

Niko held his cane at the ready, said `One, two, three, go!' and hit it on the wall with a resounding crack. The slaves started moving on their four kilometre course -- a sight to see, as they struggled with the pain of the unfamiliar insertion.

The Bosnian slave in the first batch was making heavy weather of the jog. He was evidently not accustomed to being exercised, though did not look overly over-weight. But I will admit, as I looked at him, he was struggling round the compound for the fifth time, straggling and lagging behind the Austrian, who was in fourth position so to speak -- had it been a race.

Just as punishment was meted out for disobedience, I made a point of going to a slave, who had made a genuine effort.

I thought that the Bosnian was making that effort particularly as I could see that his awkward gait was definitely connected to the small butt-plug, which had been inserted.

I ran my hand over the Bosnian's perspiring body when he had finished. My hand was slippery with his sweat. He was trying to catch his breath.

My hand touched his chest, his belly and down to his now cut penis and sole ball. He stood very still when I touched him between his legs, but made no move to draw away. I came around to his back and ran my hand up his back, up to his neck and over his damp short hair. He was rapidly recovering his breath.

I took a container of water from Niko and went over with its ladle to those, who had come in first after what was little more than a jog.

The Italian and Catalan slaves had come in first and I gave each a ladle of water. The Catalan was breathing heavily his hand half down on his muscled thighs. I would have said that both had exercised at some point in their past lives, as neither was very much overweight and looked reasonably fit.

I saw what I wanted to see in the Catalan's eyes -- resignation. He would train well. The Italian's eyes were not yet committed, but I thought to myself that he would be in time.

The third in was the Serb, who was gasping for air. The Austrian and the Bosnian slaves were distressed after even a relatively short run of four kilometres.

To the remaining slaves I gave a ladle of water in silence. As the Serb drank his, I ran my hand down his back and over the welts on his backside. He instinctively flinched.

I said, `Shhhh.' He did not move further. The weals were now bright red and about a quarter of an inch high.

Niko was looking at me so I asked him to get me some Aloe milk-sap , as it has not only sun-blocking properties, but a mild anaesthetic capacity as well. When he came back, I applied a liberal amount over the Serb's hairless backside. The depilatory cream had previously worked its magic with its applications at the processing centre.

Having finished on his buttocks, I put a large blob of it on my hand and at his back, I rubbed it over his head. He stood stock still until I finished.

When I did, I pinched the band of fat around his belly and shook my head. The message to him was clear. Training and exercise!

I went over to the Austrian and Bosnian slaves and did their heads as well and also shook my head at the inches of fat around the waist of the Austrian.

When I asked Rob and Niko afterwards as to, who would break first, we were all agreed. It was not that we were making a bet, but rather a professional assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of the new slaves.

Rolf Hanzer, my gym manager at the Lime Palace, has put together a series of exercises for a thirty-day period. They are designed to leave the slave physically exhausted, but not broken, at the end of the day, which starts at six in the morning by being risen shortly after sunrise and after ablutions, they are then given their ten minute breakfast of two slave biscuits and water.

The majority of slaves, who arrive are physically quite out-of-shape. They have not been seriously or properly exercised. A minority come as pumped-up bodies from prison gyms, but these are definitely a minority and again, it is one thing to be muscularly pumped-up and quite another thing to be fit.

When the jogs increase in length, as each compound is a two hundred meter square, ten times round is eight kilometres or five miles. The last slave in each race receives five strokes of the camel cane, the second last four and the third last three. The places therefore to come are first or second, if punishment is to be avoided.

On the first day, when no time was set or indicated, the pace was a nice canter and all came in close to forty minutes. However, when the punishment for arriving after the first two places is introduced, the pace heats up.

Apart from simple running for lung and leg development, the slaves are then put through combinations of a series of press-ups, chin-ups --which very few can initially do at all -- and simple, but effective, sit-ups.

Chin-ups are a great opportunity for the overseer to assist the slave through physical contact, holding the slave around the waist, or even a helping hand between and under the slaves' buttocks.

On my second visit to the first compound, I saw that the Italian slave had difficulty in coordinating his passage along the hanging bars and had dropped a number of times. Rob went to help him, as the slave has to run back to the beginning to start all over again. I walked over to Rob and nodded to him. He stepped aside and let me spot the Italian.

`Go slow and gently. No rush. Nice and gentle.'

It may have been the mere extra support of my hand up between his legs, letting him half sit on my palm and wrist, but he went through the procedure without dropping and stepped onto the platform at the other end.

He turned to me and said `grazie.'

I looked at him and said, `You say -- thank you, Master.'

He blinked a number of times. The perspiration was running down his face and into his eyes.

`Thank you, Master.'

I expected that he would be a good slave given time.

After a ten-minute rest between gym exercises, chin-ups with now released arms appear to the slave to be a positive indulgence. As the new slaves are put through their press-ups and sit-ups, in particular, the small but highly effective butt-plugs work their expanding magic the trainers see to it that the numbers are done and then the attempt made at improving the times.

At the end of the first six days, no slave has ever lost less than three kilos in weight and there is always a remarkable improvement in personality, attitude, deference and obedience. I personally also put that down to the loss of testosterone from the gelding of one ball, but Dr. Yves Fournier disagrees with me on that issue, saying that it perhaps too soon for a positive scientific confirmation to be given.

I know that Dr. Fournier is running a series of research tests on this issue and on a fertility issue. When I have asked him about his research, he always says "In time. In time, it is too early yet to say.'

By day, the slaves continually have the butt-plug inserted and before their evening cold shower each buddy has to extract his buddy's butt-plug, which then has to be carefully washed by him and stood on the shelf for next morning's use.

Butt-plug week' itself got its name early on when Niko heard one slave murmur, Oh fuck, not again. This fucking butt-plug is killing me' as his buddy attempted to insert the butt-plug one morning.

The training overseer thought the phrase so good that he did not punish the slave for speaking, but rather went and got the buddy more lubricant.

What the trainees did not know yet was that in compounds two to five, the diameter size of the butt-plugs would increase progressively to two, three, four and then five centimetres. The statement of this technique was that the Master can do anything he likes to his slave's body; that the slave when instructed must apply the technique himself or have his buddy do it; that the work of the day, whether training or otherwise, must be done despite a physical discomfort. And, lastly, that the slave's butt-hole may at some stage be used by the Master or by any person the Master chooses.

But what is extremely clear is that the levels of aggressive behaviour seen in the slaves upon their arrival, towards both overseers and, at times, toward their own assigned buddies, has certainly lowered by the end of the sixth day in the first compound and most clearly from day five onwards.

At the end of their first six days in this training and breaking down of resistances procedure, if all trainers are not fully happy with the performance of the slave, the slave is told that he will be kept back for a further period of training, which starts immediately with thirty strokes of a camel-cane and is told that his end-times have now become his start-times for the extra period he is in the compound.

Normally such slaves, after the initial shock of their punishment and their distress at not having risen with their group, then become really and truly motivated to improve their performance. The slave at this stage never knows how long he will be in the compound, nor indeed how many more compounds there for him. At this stage, nothing short of the mental or physical collapse of the slave will stop the training.

I had said to Jack wife's Fiona that I would do something for Jess Tollman, in the aftermath of him saving her in the episode of the store fire stampede.

My gift to Jess Tollman was not an actual gift at all, but an act of retribution for his own enslavement. Two so-called `friends' of his had invited him out when back in Michigan, got him slightly drunk and had him lifted for the sum of five thousand dollars. This was on Jess' file. Their names were not on file, but I had Josh Green in the Grand Cayman put his investigators on it and within the week, I had their names -- still on an open missing person's file as those, who had last seen Jess Tollman.

A lunch-time trip to the slave auction-rooms at al-Qatim, the payment of ten thousand dollars for the lifting of the two `friends,' and the die was cast.

Normally, Faisal drives me in the Bank's Rolls but I said I would needed Jess Tollman to drive me for one day and to show Jess the running of the car.

It was two month's after the store incident. Jess' back had healed very well. There were still two visible scars. I had said to Jess that I would have a plastic surgeon repair them at the University Hospital.

`No way, Boss! Greg looks at those scars every night and kisses them and say I'm a hero. Who am I to say no to all of that?'

`So, no plastic surgery?'

`No, Boss, no plastic surgery.'

I asked him did he know how to drive a Rolls and he looked at me.

`Yes, Boss, I can manage a Rolls.'

`Faisal will take you out for a spin to get familiar with the car. I want you to drive me in uniform one day this week.'

`Yes, Boss,' he said sort of looking at me, dying to ask a question but like a good slave not giving in to the impulse.

It was not difficult to have Zabian al-Kibbe, general manager of the opal mine owned by my old friend Farouk al-Hamdi present at the al-Qatim auction-rooms for the Thursday auction. I told him there were two slaves there that he might consider purchasing and when they had finished their useful working life at the mine, that I would then purchase them from him.

Jess Tollman was standing beside me while I was speaking with Zabian.

`Did you follow that, Jess? You worked at the mine.'

`Yes, Boss. I did. I remember seeing this gentleman there. But I never spoke to him. I don't understand what's up'

Zabian al-Kibbe had gone off to inspect some of the slaves before the auction.

`You did not come through al-Qatim, number 473724?

Jess actually blanched as I said his SIN number.

He swallowed before he answered, `No, Boss, I came through al-Mera. Boss, you're not...you're not...?'

The question was only half formed.

`No, Jess, I am not going to sell you. I am about to sell two other slaves. When you see them, I am going to ask you a question and you can give me the answer of your choosing.'

`You're going to ask me a question, Boss? And I've to answer you?'

`Yes, Jess, as simple as that. Do you know how you arrived in al-Mera?'

`No, Boss, I woke up in chains in a van with a splitting headache and the rest is a blur. There was a ride in a plane and then the heat of Dahra.'

`Yes, you had been given some knockout drops by two of your friends, who sold you for five thousand dollars.'

`Friends, who sold me? Boss, I don't understand what you're saying.'

`Do you remember the names of the two friends you were with that night, Jess?'

`Not Paulie and Shawnie, Boss? They wouldn't have done something like that to me.'

`Remember, Jess, what I said. Not a word until I ask you a question.'

`Yes, Boss.'

Jess Tollman standing there in his grey driver's suit did not look a happy camper, his cap under his arm. I beckoned to him to follow me.

Slaves do not normally mingle with the clients, who are bidding unless they are serving food or drink. I nodded to one of the assistant auctioneers and Jess was allowed follow me in to the raised client area.

I sat beside Zabian al-Kibbe, who said to me that he would use the occasion to buy a total of four slaves for the mine.

Jess was standing beside me.

`You okay, Jess?' I said looking up at him.

`Yes, Boss, it brings back memories. I was so frightened.'

`Just stand there until it is over.'

`Yes, Boss.'

When you are unaccustomed to slave-auctions and everything is new, the whole procedure can appear drawn out and utter confusing. But looking at the efficiency of the auctioneer as he sped through the catalogue, I thought to myself some things are definitely best left to professionals.

Zabian got two workers that he had seen before the auction at a good price and then it was numbers 81 and 82 being sold as a pair.

I heard Jess Tollman suck in his breath as he saw his former friends Paulie and Shawnie being led in. I just patted his leg beside me and he calmed down. The way the lights are directed at the stage and display area means that the slaves can being displayed can only see blurred figures beyond the lights, in half shadow, but not clearly, unless the clients are very much to the side of the arena. We were not.

Unless pairs have something in common, they are not popular. Clients may look for two athletes, or two twins, or two similar looking blonds with some form of skill. But two out shape semi-skilled workers, who looked totally lost and, who did not even know how to stand at `display' properly, attracted no great interest. Three lukewarm bids topped by a counter-bid of thirty nine thousand euro and Zabian al-Kibbe had his third and fourth slaves of the day. Paulie and Shawnie were led away still as lost as ever.

My business was almost over. Zabian's was also. Jess had still to be brought into the frame. We walked over to the settlements desk. Zabian paid for his first two slaves to the house and a second cheque to me for the second two slaves. As I had paid for the lifting of the second two, there were no house fees, merely the payment of thirty nine thousand euro to me the seller. Zabian was handed then four tan folders with his new slaves' details.

Putting the folders in his brief-case, he looked at me and said, `Well, shall we?'

`After you,' I said and we walked over to and into the holding areas.

Zabian's four new slaves were to one side of the largest holding awaiting dispatch instructions. We made our way over to them, approaching them from the side and they stood up straight when an assistant slapped one firmly with a camel-cane on the legs. I indicated to Jess to stay to the side. His eyes were glued to two of the slaves.

Now, Zabian,' I said in English, we have to decide on these two' looking at the last two he had purchased.

The two slaves were looking directly at me hearing English being spoken. Neither said a word. The other two slaves did not understand English as they looked uncomprehendingly at us.

I returned the stare at the two slaves. They did not even know that you did not stare at a Master. They would learn. They would learn to their cost. And how!

`You two have been bought to work as slaves in an open-cast mine in the desert. It's a twelve hour-a-day job, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year. The average slave lives, if that is the word, for seven years working in those conditions.'

The two were looking at me, their eyes wide with horror.

`The question I have to ask is how long you two should work in that mine.'

The two slaves were beginning to sweat even in the air-conditioned holding room and one was beginning to hyperventilate.

Turning towards Jess, I beckoned him into their line of vision.

`Jess, you have worked in that mine. How many years do you think Paulie and Shawnie here should work there? Take your time. There is no hurry.'

Paulie and Shawnie had gone totally pale. I thought that one of them was about to vomit and stepped back a pace. It was more than a ghost they were seeing. They were looking at the dead friendship, the dead comradeship, the dead fellowship of former drinking buddies and good-time companions. They were looking at a now mortal enemy whom they had sold into slavery.

Jess walked up to both of them in a perfectly tailored suit and tie, starched shirt and gleaming shoes.

The two slaves did not know what was what, other than their former friend was deciding on their fate and their future lives.

`Jess, man, oh shit. I'm sorry,' one said.

The other was crying now and sank to his knees and covered his head with his hands, mumbling `sorry, sorry,' between his sobs.

If there are moment when time stand still, this was certainly one of them and then the silence of the afternoon was broken against the background whoosh of the air-conditioning.

`Four years, Boss.'

`Four years, it is. That is if they survive that long, Jess.'

Turning to the mine's general manager, I said in Arabic, `Are you okay with four years, Zabian? I'll take them off your hands at that stage. I'll still have some water-wheels waiting for them for a couple of years after that.'

We shook hands on it.

`Jess, let's get out of here.'

Without a further look at the two condemned slaves, we walked out of the auction-rooms and into the sunlight. It was good to be in the fresh air. I took Zabian's cheque out of my pocket and showed it to Jess.

`They fetched thirty nine thousand euro, just over fifty thousand dollars. I'll see that you wife gets it for the kids' education. Is that okay, Jess?'

Jess' eyes were wet and he was making strange shapes with his lips and biting his lower lip.

He finally managed, `Thanks, Boss. And if you ever want someone dead, just say so.'

I looked up sharply at him, thinking there was some joke in what he said. The look on his face convinced me of my error.

`Are you okay for driving back to the Palace?'

`Boss, I have never felt better and feeling better by the minute.'

The last bit he said with a smile as he put his cap on his head and fixed the peak in place at an angle. The drive back to the Lime Palace was in silence. But then, a good slave would drive in silence, wouldn't he?

End of chapter 16

To be continued...