Dahran

This is the seventh chapter ex twenty two of a novel

-- The Dahran Rebuttals - about present day slavery and gay sex.

The Dahran trilogies are composed to date of 6 novels:

Trilogy one:

The Changed Life

The Reluctant Retrainer

The Market Offer

Trilogy two:

The Special Memories

The Dahran Way

The Dahran Rebuttals (this novel)

Keywords:

authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, 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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Chapter 7--The assumption of immutability

`Jonathan, how are you?'

Charlie Deckham sounded as if he were in the next room instead of thousands of miles away in London.

`Charlie, very well and yourself? How is London?'

`I'm well and London's well. I am just checking that you will be at the Board-meeting next Monday.'

`Yes, indeed, Charlie. Ticket booked. Bag not yet packed, but all things going well, I shall be there. Is there a problem?'

`No, quite the contrary. I want to invite you and a friend to lunch after the Board-meeting. That is if you have nothing planned.'

`No, Charlie, nothing scheduled,' but even had I, an invitation from the Chairman of Deckhams to lunch would have forced its cancellation.

It is never quite possible to second-guess Lord Deckham's intentions as he has that many business and social contacts. I let the matter rest and did not give it a second thought.

On each of the following nights for a full week, I had pairs of my favourite slaves in my bed, not necessarily those who were the best sexual athletes--no, not that at all. But I have always found that, when I want to reassure myself, uninhibited sex is one of the greatest releases in life and, particularly, with the excellent slaves in my service whose only concern in life was my well-being and welfare, as their Master.

`Jens, what are you doing this month?'

Jens Johanssen was lying at my side in bed. He is my computer specialist and is always working on some project or other. Normally, I am lost after the first sentence of explanation. Now was no exception to that rule.

`Master, it is a new system of automatically configuring hardware, processing and compacting the existing data to a fraction of the previous size, and I have integrated it into all the systems we use.'

He stopped.

`You don't understand, Master, what I am doing. I can see it in your eyes.'

`No, Jens, I don't understand, but I trust and love you, as I trust and love Abdul here.'

Abdul ben-Azri lying beside on the other side and looked at me with those soft and brown eyes of his, smiled and my heart melted in the warmth and charm of his guileless countenance. His limited mental abilities were the other end of the scale to Jens' brilliance, but in all the Palaces, no one loved me more and I was a poor second in reciprocating that love to him.

Abdul started on one of the sex techniques which my trainers had taught him. I lay back and let him shower his love upon me. At one point, I took his wrist-thick penis in my fingers and felt the generous precum already on its tip. He brought his hand down and encompassed mine, touched his own cock head's precum and brought our entwined fingers to my lips for me to suck.

When Abdul sixty-nined me, I just looked down at Jens who was at my feet. Jens is not a good lover, so I normally just let him massage the soles of my feet and suck my toes. But with Abdul, I have to be careful, for when he comes, he comes by the half-pint, as I discovered almost to my own drowning on a first occasion.

Abdul now knows that he has to tell me when he is near explosion time, for his outpouring is nothing short of a series of explosions. And so it was.

I, for my part, held off as long as I could on his sucking of my cock, but he is getting very good at taking my length down to my pubic bone and then very tightly holding it with his most sensual lips, brings his head up causing me to shudder each time. When he is at the top of the cock, his tongue then goes into a whirlpool motion and I usually have to have a firm grasp on the bedclothes.

Finally, I could hold on no more and I came in three or four bursts in his mouth.

Abdul un-sixty-nined himself and coming up to my face, he said `Master?'

`Abdul, that was beautiful, really beautiful.'

Abdul is always very conscious of his own inexperience as a lover and quietly reminds me that I have to teach him as I promised all that he needs to learn as my lover. I always make the point of complimenting him on what he does in bed and the simple joy in his eyes when he hears that he has pleased me is such a warming experience.

On one of the other evenings, I had Gary and Justie, two of the water-guys and on a further evening, on his own, Roge Harte.

Roge is a category all of his own for me. A superb athlete and a former Australian footballer, golden tanned and rangy and quite hetero, he has discovered a full range of sexual techniques such as massages and nipple play and two-handed jacking off which has to be experienced to be believed.

All of these techniques--even the one where he pushes his kneeling thighs under mine and puts his palms on the calves of my legs, allowing him unimpeded access to my butt-hole for his very slow penetrations--are to allow him to keep up a running commentary on Aussie football. Aussie football, I ask you!

As Roge is my arms-length supervisor of a football team I own in Tasmania, he gets the weekly video of the practices, games and even of the junior teams and their training sessions.

I have given up trying to get him to concentrate just on the sex and after a while, no longer listening to his football references--I am only interested in the bodies of the players--I notice the perfection of his sex techniques carefully chosen to allow him to talk and yet perform. And perform he does usually in four or five furious gasping ejaculations!

I was exhausted after having this Aussie bucking bronco inside me. The bucking bronco himself was exhausted and collapsed on the bed beside me.

`Boss?'

`Yes, Roge?' I said and as usual never knew where Roge's innocuous initial questions would lead.

`Boss, you don't think I'm becoming a poofter, do you?

`You a poofter, Roge. No way, mate.'

I saw him smile at that.

`Why do you say that, Roge? You know I think that you a great and talented Aussie footballer and an even better club organiser.'

`You're not just saying that, Boss?'

`No, Roge, why would I tell you a lie? You have learned to like being touched and sucked off. You can now give me a lot of pleasure and when you do, I see a hunk of an Aussie footballer between my legs.'

`And you think I organise things okay?'

`Roge, I don't think it. I know it. Look at all the junior clubs now in existence, all the kits that have been given out, the stream of new players coming in. What more do think can be done, that you haven't done or suggested?'

Roge slid a hand under my head and put an arm over my chest.

`Thanks, Boss, sometimes, I just need to hear it said.'

`Are you not lonely a bit, Roge? You have never taken a permanent buddy at the Lime Palace.'

`No, Boss, not like Rolf and Frank.'

Rolf Hanzer was his boss at the gym and Frank Kovacs headed up the sex techniques programme.

I looked at him for a better explanation.

`What you might call a couple of one-night stands, Boss, but I haven't seen anyone so far who turns my world upside down. Maybe one day. But I don't want you to think I'm a poofter.'

`No way, Roge. No way!'

I am now finding it more and more difficult to leave Dahra even for some days each month in London for the regular third Monday of the month meeting. I forgive the city everything except its climate during nine months of the year. Gustav came with me to the October meeting--Colin being quite busy in supervising a rather large placing of bonds, though he was on video for the duration of the meeting which ended promptly at midday as usual.

Charlie Deckham excused himself from pre-luncheon drinks and left the Board in the capable hands of our quiet South African Deputy Chair. Charlie nodded to me and we decamped for The Pheasants, a new restaurant off Oxford Street which according to Charlie is specialising in small luncheons in private dining-rooms with the menu pre-agreed to the last detail with the host.

`The man I am going to introduce to you is an old friend of mine since university, Geoff Masters. When I came into the Bank, he went into the Army and made his career there. Left as a Lieutenant Colonel after seventeen years. He then set up Group777.'

Bells were beginning to ring--a security company comprised only of ex-military personnel--something about a takeover in recent months.

Charlie was still talking. `Geoff's business was run like his career. On trust of those around him. Each new employee had to be vouched for by two other existing employees. If ever the new guy was sacked for misbehaving, so too were his two referrers. He tells me it happened six times in fourteen years. Now he has sold the company lock, stock and barrel to one of the major players for £92 million cash.'

`Charlie, I don't see where this is going, except in the direction of a nice lunch.'

`You will, Jonathan, you will and be ready to hold on to your seat.'

The private dining-room at The Pheasants was a medium-sized room with a circular table set for three persons. Interestingly enough, such a setting implied no top or head of table to indicate status or position, but in its circularity all were being deemed equal participants.

Immaculately starched linen, heavy silver cutlery and Ravensdale glass completed the cover. One of the seats furthest from the door was occupied and Geoff Masters rose to greet us.

His was a man of military bearing, closely cropped grey hair but stylishly done, perfect suit and white shirt cuffs with less than an inch peeking out of tailored sleeves which had been born in Bond Street. Coming round the table, his polished black shoes shone with a shine found only in barracks and on parade grounds.

Geoff, delighted to see you, old boy,' Charlie commented extending a hand, This is Sir Jonathan Martin. Jonathan, Geoff Masters.'

`Sir Jonathan, thank you for seeing me and also thank you, Charlo, for arranging the lunch.'

I looked at Charlie Deckam.

`Charlo?'

`School nickname. Many years ago. Jonathan, do take a seat. Geoff...'

Charlie Deckam was in his element, indicating chairs at the table and we sat down. As if on cue, side doors opened and three waiters came, one pushing in a trolley complete with soup tureen, the second prepared to serve the wine and the third, waiting to serve the soup.

As this was a private lunch, there was no menu. Charlie was offered a wine to taste and nodded approval having smelled deeply of its bouquet and taken not more than a sip.

A clear bouillon au cerfeuil gave new definition to the use of chervil with beef consommé which had been successfully tempted with port, if I was not mistaken.

A white Fleury was its perfect foil. Thankfully the afternoon was clear and not required for banking or hard thinking, or so I thought.

Charlie was quite happy to put Geoff Masters at his ease, not that it seemed necessary, with reminiscences of classmates and teachers, of schoolboy pranks and the small talk of commonalities in which old school friends indulge.

I did not feel left out, quite the contrary, I was very much left in, so to speak, as I realised that Charlie Deckham was giving me the opportunity to size up Geoff Masters and his history for whatever reasons.

The small talk turned to business and to the recent, well recent in the previous six months, takeover or rather sale of Group777 by Geoff Masters. Some of the facts and figures being mentioned were startling and I looked across at one of the waiters removing a soup plate in preparation for the next course.

It was not for me to advise discretion to my own Bank Chairman. However, nothing is lost on Charlie Deckham, for he had seen my look and read my thought.

They can't hear us,' Charlie said. All the waiters here wear earplugs if you look carefully and just in case you are worried, the room is safe. No recording devices can be used in here, or mobiles activated.'

I automatically pulled out my mobile and saw that I had been switched off.

Electronic signal,' Geoff Masters said as he smiled. On walking over the threshold, the phone is deactivated. Total privacy. That was one of the group's products.'

I looked at the two waiters setting down the plates for the main course and managed to see some form of clear earplug inserted in the ears nearest me.

As the entrée was served, lamb Charlotte aux aubergines, thin slices of lamb in eggplant, Charlie said, `I love good English lamb as a main course. You just can't beat it any day. Now Geoff, will you tell Jonathan here first of all, what you have done after the sale of Group777?'

Geoff Masters looked a little nervously at me and I wondered why.

`The sale of the group realised a net £92 million for me personally. I have given ten million each to my three children, my two married girls and my son, who has a personnel business. I have sold my home and retired handsomely the staff who have been with me over the years. I have been left with just over sixty million. This sum I have wanted to give to you, Sir Jonathan.'

Geoff Masters' eyes had not left me while he was talking, but I had to break eye contact with him to look at Charlie Deckam, whose visage was now poker-faced. Had I been on my own, I would easily have concluded that Geoff Masters was mad, but then, the Chairman of Deckams, to my knowledge, does not lunch with the insane.

I had noticed two things by their presence and one by its absence.

Geoff Masters had said that he `had wanted' to give me sixty million--sterling, I presumed, as we were in London and it being coin of the realm--but as he had not done so, either he had not been able to do it yet, or someone had dissuaded him from the idea.

The second thing was the use of Sir' before my name. We were equals at a social lunch. There was no need of the Sir.'

And what was clearly missing by its absence was the unstated reason for such an action.

I kept my silence. He kept his as did Charlie Deckam. Their respective silences forced me to break mine.

`Why?'

`Sir Jonathan, I want to be your slave.'

The room was stunningly silent. The waiters had withdrawn by this stage. I remember looking at the slices of lamb, my knife and fork crossed at their points.

I looked at Charlie Deckam, wondering if he had told this man anything of my business which could have put so much into the crosshairs of danger. The thought was unworthy of me.

Again, Charlie Deckham read my thoughts as easily as he can read upside down handwriting.

`No, Jonathan, you know that I would never discuss your private business with anyone. Geoff came to me. I listened to him and said, the easiest way for this matter to proceed was to arrange this lunch. He wanted to transfer the balances in his accounts to you and I persuaded him to put them into escrow at the Bank until this situation is concluded. As of this moment, he or you can withdraw sixty plus million sterling, if countersigned with my signature.'

I had not said a word and looked back at Geoff Masters.

`Sir Jonathan, in the course of my business three years ago, we had to make a special air delivery to Dahra. It was a sealed container. When it was delivered to our air dispatch depot in Essex, one of the staff noticed that there was a leak coming from the container and called a Manager, who in the circumstances, tried to contact the sender, but was unable to do so.

Knowing that the heavy cargo must be valuable, being sent as it was, by express air delivery, he cleared the depot and with his assistant opened the container. There were three unconscious naked men inside it, strapped into restraints, with IV's in their arms and catheters in their penises.'

`The leak was a leak in every sense of the word. A catheter was disconnected from its plastic bag and the urine had spilled out.'

`The Manager called my emergency number immediately and informed me. I was there within the hour, by which time, the Manager had found a file in a pouch on the inside wall of the container, giving details of what we presumed were the three individuals--a Ross Wells, a Mark Tornby and a Jim Brown. The destination was the Dahra International Airport. The sender was unknown to us. The consignee, on the face of it a reputable business man, a Mr. ben-Mustafa with whom we had been dealing on and off over the years in the Dahran port of al-Mera.'

Geoff Masters was talking of three `lifted' slaves being sent to the slave-dealer at the auction rooms at al-Mera. He was also talking of Ross Wells, my slave and former call guy, whom I had bought almost three years ago when I found him in the auction-rooms quite by chance.

`And what did you do?' I heard myself quietly asking.

`My Manager attached the catheter back onto its plastic bottle-bag and we resealed the container. We keep a duplicate set of container locks in the depot. It was not the first time that we had to open a container in an emergency. The consignee would never know and did not on this occasion. The container went out on the next direct flight within the hour and the Manager and his assistant were richer by twenty thousand each, ensuring their loyal silence.'

`Two things were put in motion as a result of that discovery. I had a firm of investigators enquire about the consignee, this ben-Mustafa gentleman. A preliminary report lead on to other reports one of them being on a Shariff Khan and the last one being on yourself, Sir Jonathan.'

Geoff Masters was now talking about the slave paraphernalia supermarket owner in Dahra.

`As a result of those reports, the second thing was that I set in motion the sale of the business which concluded some six months ago.'

Charlie Deckam interrupted at this stage and said, `Geoff came to see me and told me first what he had found out, I did not say a word, Jonathan and I broke no confidence. I just listened to him. Secondly he told me what he wanted to do. I told him to think about it which brings us up to today.'

`Again, I ask why?'

`Sir Jonathan, I loved school, its structure and its discipline. I then went into the Army and again, I loved every minute of it. Always answering to one above, in a clear line of command and authority. Being the person I am, I advanced as far as I could go. Without on-going major military action or an official war, a lot of Lieutenant Colonels never make General or beyond. I want the simplicity of what I love--authority and obedience, without any ifs or buts. That is why I want to be your slave.'

I looked again at Charlie Deckam, who was wearing his non-committal and inscrutable face. I had heard the words, but I did not care to believe in their sanity, or that of the person speaking them. While I can accept slavedom being embraced in the lives of those who have little or nothing to live for, or little or nothing to go back to in their own world and life-style, a man of Geoff Masters' wealth and means was another kettle of fish entirely.

`Even if I were to listen to you, Mr. Masters and to hear what you say, I will not for one minute accept any of the statements you have just made about myself, or Dahra. To accept them here in England would be to turn the world we live in upside down were such statements true.'

`And if, Sir Jonathan, I were to turn up on your doorstep in Dahra, would you turn me away,' Geoff Master enquired.

`No one is refused hospitality at my homes in Dahra, even if it is only a bed for the night,' I replied rather coldly and not at all amused at the idea of uninvited guests arriving at the Palaces. Nor is foreign tourism practiced to any degree in Dahra.

`How long would that hospitality endure, Sir Jonathan?'

`My hospitality does not have a cut-off date, Mr. Masters, but my guests never overstay their welcome.'

I had lost my appetite. I was annoyed at Charlie Deckham for allowing this matter to come to a head the way it had.

`Mr. Masters, please wait outside the door, I wish to speak to Lord Deckham alone.'

`Yes, sir,' and Geoff Masters got up immediately and went outside the door of the private dining-room.

`Charlie, is this man for real? If he wants to feel good about giving away his money, there's the Red Cross, Barnardos, the Salvation Army, a hundred and one charities. But to buy his slavedom from me as if it were some form of membership of a club, or of the winner's circle at Chepstow. This is madness.'

`No, Jonathan, it is not madness. I have met some, not many, Geoff Masters in my time--persons who love the structures of authority. He has no dependant family. His wife died of cancer some ten years ago. He is the same age as myself, fifty two. He has provided for the children, far more than they need. He has effectively signed away his wealth into an escrow account at the Bank. You need only sign to have it transferred to you.'

`Charlie, it is not about the money. If Geoff Masters steps across the boundaries of my properties, it is for life, until the day he dies. He looks healthy and that means for the next quarter of a century.'

`He knows that Jonathan and he is willing to take that risk for the rest of his life which could most likely be as you say for all of twenty five years.'

`Is his mental health ok? No insanity in his family?'

`No insanity that I know of. He has complained of arthritis and high blood pressure, no more than myself. But he is healthy and fit and he tells me that he exercises vigorously at his club every day. He is now living at the Black and White, since he has sold up everything.'

`Everything?'

`Everything. He is keeping a quarter of a million in his account here to pay for incidentals, until you decide. If you do, that balance is to be transferred as well to you.'

`Charlie, I have lost my appetite. Thank you for the lunch. But I shall have to think about this.'

I folded my napkin, stood up and walked out the dining-room door. Geoff Masters was standing down the corridor and I walked down to him.

`I shall consider your offer over the next month and let you know.'

`Yes, sir. Thank you.'

I had Josh Green and his investigator in the Grand Cayman do a report on Group777 and one Geoff Masters for me. All the facts given in the reports tallied to an iota of the information I had been given.

Two weeks after the aborted lunch Geoff Masters was `lifted' a quarter of a mile from the Black and White Club, as he returned from a local pub and woke up in the slave centre at al-Qatim.

His clothes, neatly folded, but no swim towel or bathing items, were discovered in a cove near Cape Cornwall, an area noted for its treacherous currents just up from Land's End. Neither family nor friends could give any idea for his hinted at suicide nor any explanation as to why he had been in Cornwall.

Geoff Masters' training and breaking was easy for his trainers. It was not easy for him despite whatever he might have thought or imagined slavery might be. Slavedom is not a choice of life, but for a very, very chosen few. Its crudeness is in no way romantic and though in a way partially prepared for it, Geoff Masters suffered as each slave did in his kofila.

I deliberately did not meet with him, or his fellow four slaves, three from Farouq al-Hamdi's opal mine and Terry Peoples, whom I had purchased from the al-Shaad family. I waited until thirty days had elapsed after their final day in the fifth compound.

When the five were called forward to receive their gold necklace, I think that Geoff Masters' eyes shone brightest; that those of the slaves from the opal mine were the most appreciative of their newfound owner and that Terry Peoples, whom, after a month at the Lime Palace, I had decided needed full training after all, had been brought down a number of pegs as to his own importance in the scheme of things between a Master and a slave.

To be on the safe side, I put Geoff Masters to work with the slaves of the Aloe Palace as the overall Farm Manager was Yuriy Obov, a former Spetnaz Captain in the Kazakh army, whom I trust implicitly. Yuriy was my first slave and knows how to handle men, as both slaves and workers.

I gave Yuriy no background information on Geoff Masters. Yuriy passed no comment on that, though such information to the Manager is the norm. Nor did he comment on the slave's age. His only comment to me one day early on was `he was military, Boss.'

`Are you sure? I thought Ben Trant told me that he had a security business.'

Yuriy looked at me and said no more than to repeat himself, `he was military, Boss.'

As they say, it takes one to know one and while some things change, other things can never be hidden.

In the lifting and life as a slave of Geoff Masters, the assumption of immutability was both proven and disproven.

The unchanging nature of a desire to achieve total pleasure was in serving the structures of school and the military and now in structures of the Aloe and Lime Palaces.

The changing nature of circumstances to take on a new track and path of life--the ability to change--was proven by Geoff Masters' choosing to live out his life in total happiness as a slave at the Aloe Palace, in loving obedience to my overseers and to me, his Master.

End of Chapter 7

To be continued . . .