Dahran

This is the ninth chapter ex twenty two of a novel 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 9--The assumption of faith

There was a knock on the door of my office at the Bank and there stood Jack Tuttle, my nephew, looking a bit sheepish.

`Come in, Jack. How are dividends? Sit down.'

`Getting there, Uncle Jonathan.'

`What can I do for you?'

`Do you remember the voucher you gave me as a wedding present?'

`Yes, indeed,--valid for one residence in Dahra.'

`Is it still valid?'

`Of course, it is. Have you and Fiona found a property where you want to build.'

I knew that both he and Fiona were keen to put the kidnapping of their son behind them by having a new place to stay. Though Fiona is eminently sensible, she was still very nervous at the presence of the EU prisoner-slaves so close by.

That's why I am here, Uncle Jonathan. The voucher says Valid for one residence to be built in Dahra,' and taking the voucher out of his coat pocket, Jack laid it on the desk before me. `But we have found a place that is already built.'

`Not built, built, to be built. It's all the same. It's just the way I wrote the words in a hurry. Is this place what you and Fiona want?

`Fiona loves it and has not stopped talking about it since we saw it. I think it is nice and it is quite close to the capital city, but far enough out in the country to have slaves in it.'

`So what's the problem. Where is it?'

`It's Gustav's.'

`You mean, Gustav's home where we had dinner?'

`In one, Uncle Jonathan. In one.'

`Have you spoken to Gustav about his?'

`Oh, yes, and he seems to be agreeable as he said it will solve a number of problems for him.'

`Problems?'

`I think we had better speak of this with Gustav present.'

I pressed Gustav's button on the intercom and asked him to come to see me.

`When did all of this happen?' I asked Jack.

`Some days after we got the baby back after the kidnapping.'

Gustav had arrived. He looked at Jack and then at me.

`You are in the property market, Gustav, from what I hear.'

`Perhaps, Jonathan, perhaps.'

`Fiona and Jack seem interested in your home. Are you really interested in selling it after what ... twenty odd years?'

`I would be interested in selling it, yes, because I have to make provision for my compatriots.'

Gustav usually avoided the word slaves being a man who bought slaves, but was not a slave-owner in his own mind. He must have seen the furrow on my brow, because he went on to add--`if I sell the property and get some cash, I can buy a smaller property for myself and the five who stay with me on rotation, and then come to a financial settlement with you, Jonathan, on the long-term care of my fellow countrymen.'

`Gustav, what's this? You don't need cash to pay me to take care of the Swedes? That is nonsense. Your Swedes more than pay for themselves and can live at the Lime Palace for as long as they like. There is no cost factor involved at all. There is and will be no financial settlement required. None whatsoever.'

`I couldn't have that, Jonathan.'

`Well, I couldn't have it any other way. Your Swedes never look for anything. They are highly disciplined and highly productive. In a way, I should be paying you for their work.'

An idea was beginning to worm its way out of the nether regions of my brain.

`Have you looked at any other properties?'

`No. Jack just came to me with the idea yesterday.'

`Have you any objection to living a little further away from the capital city?'

`How much further away?'

`At the Aloe Palace?'

There was silence in my office, as Gustav looked at me. As Jack looked at Gustav and then at me, a smile began to flicker across his face.

`What exactly are you saying, Jonathan?'

`What I am saying is that you sell your home to Jack and Fiona. Bring your last fellow countrymen to the Aloe Palace and I will lease it to you for a thousand euro a year, if collected, until you or the last of the Swedes no longer require it.'

`Are you serious, Jonathan? The Aloe Palace is an hour's drive away.'

`I do it every day and back. Jack does it and back every day. Get yourself a chauffeur and a proper limousine as befits a junior Partner here at the Bank. Stop thinking of the negatives and start thinking of the positives in the deal.'

Yes, there are a lot of positives,' Gustav agreed. He was silent for a moment. But, Jonathan, please don't be offended -- I will only consider your offer if you tell me that there will be no slaves of yours hiding behind the doors, ready to bash me on the head.'

He said it with a half-smile to take away the sting, but I knew he was not joking.

`Gustav, I have explained our security measures at the Lemon Palace to you.'

Being questioned by my friend whether he could still consider my properties a safe place for his Swedes had definitely not been the proudest moment in my slave-owning career.

`I know that I have to protect all those who live at the Palaces, myself included. If there is anything else you would like to suggest, please tell me any time.'

`Good. As long as I can count on you in this respect...'

Gustav looked at Jack, smiled and held out his hand.

As Jack was shaking it, he blurted out, `but we have not even agreed on a price.'

Gustav and I started laughing and I said, `a fine banker, this nephew of mine is going to make, Gustav. Shaking hands on a deal without even knowing the cost.'

We were still laughing at the lack of business protocol when the buzzer of my intercom went. It was reception to say that a Mr. Budd Chavez, Cultural Attaché of the American Embassy was in reception and wished to speak with me if I were free. I looked at Gustav, who wagged a finger at me. He had been to the Embassy for a do some two weeks previously. He mouthed `Colin' and I told reception to see if Colin Bowman was free. There seemed to be a background conversation going on and reception was back on the line to say Mr. Chavez was asking to see me on the request of the Ambassador.

Jack was getting up out of his seat. Gustav was waving his hands as much to say that he was not going to any cultural event.

`Please show Mr. Chavez up.'

I went over to my bookcase and took down the Diplomatic List dated two months previously. The Cultural Attaché was given as a Ms. Thela Green and not a Mr. Budd Chavez.

`Sir Jonathan, Mr. Budd Chavez, Cultural Attaché of the United States Embassy,' the receptionist said and departed leaving a young man standing on my office carpet. He was not yet twenty five and as he was quite pale, it was clear he was not in Dahra very long.

`Sir Jonathan, thank you for seeing me without an appointment.'

`I am seeing you, Mr. Chavez, because you implied it was I that you had to see at the Ambassador's request. We, my two fellow Partners here take turns in attending to Embassy events and Colin Bowman, I am sure can assist you just as well at the next cultural event and even better than I.'

`Sir, I..I.. think not.'

This young diplomat, while poised, was distinctly nervous for some reason. I indicated one of the seats on the other side of my desk and he sat down, as I settled down in my own chair behind the desk.

`Chavez? Hispanic background?'

`My grandfather was Argentinean , sir.'

`And how long are you in Dahra?' I asked, putting my hand on the open Diplomatic List on the desk, letting him know clearly that he was not in it.

While some small talk was always necessary in diplomatic circles, I wanted it as close to the subject matter as possible.

`I arrived on Sunday, sir.'

`And already on missions for the Ambassador and it not yet a full week.'

`Yes, sir.'

The young man was very nervous and fidgeting. I thought he was looking for a handkerchief in his pocket and could not find it. I took a box of tissues from a drawer and pushed it towards him just in case he needed one. But he did not take a tissue and my mind went into lateral thinking overdrive.

My desk is like the letter L--on the short arm of the desk beside me, my monitor, a keypad and a mouse--but on my desk proper, there is normally only a blotter, a pen and small grey-black Seiko clock-cum-calculator. One of its features is that it acts as an appointment reminder. I hit the reminder button and saw the start of a countdown.

`And how long have you been with State?'

`Just a year, sir. I was recruited directly out of college.'

`Where did you attend?'

He named and commented a while on one of the Ivy League better-known names.

`And you read?'

`International business finance, sir, with a minor in Arabic.'

With that the minute was up and the alarm went on my calculator.

I looked at him with horror on my face, as best I could depict it--acting not being my strongest suit -- and I hit the `Stop' button on the appointment reminder of the calculator. I picked up the calculator and in best Star Trek fashion pointed it at him as if it were a scanning device.

`Mr. Chavez, are you wearing a recording device at this moment.'

Budd Chavez went as red as a good Bordeaux wine. He was speechless and frozen to his seat.

`Well, are you?'

I was holding the calculator at him--its face towards me.

He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small Dictaphone. I could see the tape running. It was actually the same type as we use sometimes at the Bank and he took it from the same pocket in which I had thought mistakenly he had been searching for a handkerchief. In fact, he must have been fumbling to switch on the recording machine.

`Sir Jonathan, I am so sorry. I can explain.'

`Do I have to call security?'

`Oh, no sir.'

Turn off that bloody machine. Is this the only device you have on you? I should have you strip here and now, or have my Head of Security come and strip search you, but I would bet you would claim diplomatic privilege', or some such thing.'

The red colour had left his face and was replaced by an awful shade of grey. He turned off the tape and left the tape-recorder on the edge of my desk.

`You can explain?'

`Sir Jonathan, I am so sorry.'

`You have already said that.'

`This is the first task the Ambassador has asked me personally to do and he said to me, to tell him exactly what you said. So I thought that the best thing to do was to record my meeting with you. It was my idea. I swear, sir.'

`I did not know that diplomats swore, Mr. Chavez, and I think you did not know that this bank had scanning devices,' I said as I slid the calculator into a drawer beside me.

`We, I mean, I did not know about the scanning devices, sir, otherwise I would never have tried to record the meeting.'

`We, Mr. Chavez? How many people are in on this meeting? How many staff are at the US Embassy?'

`Only the Ambassador, a cipher clerk and I know about this meeting, sir. I don't know how many staff are at the Embassy in all. Diplomatic staff, there are seventeen of us. But in all, including the Marines, I think there are over a hundred and twenty. Dahra is now very important as a financial centre, apart from its oil and gas.'

I was looking at this young diplomat and wondered how the Swedish Embassy managed with a staff of four and the French Embassy with twenty.

`So, why Mr. Chavez, has the Ambassador sent you to see me?'

`Sir Jonathan, the Ambassador received a cable this morning to say that two American missionaries had come to Dahra to spread the message of the bible. Almost a week ago, they failed to make contact with their link and nothing has been heard from them since.'

I looked at the diplomat and could hardly believe my ears. While Dahra is very much in the twenty-first century as far as business, finance and oil and gas go, in matters of mores, ethics, customs and religion it is quite definitely in what we Europeans call the Middle Ages, or even further back. Foreign missionaries are simply not allowed in. I remember that my Filipino cook, a good and devout Catholic, would go each weekend to Mass at the Italian Embassy, under the guise of attending a cultural event.

`And what has this to do with me?' I said quietly.

`The Ambassador's information is that there is the fear that the two missionaries might have been enslaved.'

`And again, Mr. Chavez, what has this to do with me?'

`The Ambassador said that if the two missionaries had been enslaved, that you, sir, would know what to do.'

`Go on.'

`That he and the government of the United States would be very grateful if you could lend assistance...'

I said nothing, Mr. Chavez had not finished relaying his message.

` ...and that a similar arrangement to the EU one could be made with you by the Government under even more favourable terms.'

`Do you understand what the Ambassador meant, Mr. Chavez. Truthfully?'

`The second middle part yes, sir. The government would be grateful. I don't understand the first and third parts. That is why I brought the Dictaphone, so as to be absolutely sure afterwards that I had said the right thing.'

`Is that all, Mr. Chavez?'

`Yes, sir. That is the message. If you say that you cannot help, I am to phone the Ambassador as soon as possible. If you say, sir, that you can help, I am to give you my card and contact number and to be at your orders 24/7 until this problem is solved.'

`24/7! How very American! At all hours and every day of the week.'

`Yes, sir.'

I looked at the eager young diplomat on the other side of my desk and thought how expendable careers can be. If he messed up, his career would be over before it had even begun, notwithstanding his major in international business and his minor in Arabic. It would be no great cost to his department of State and its diplomacy, to write off a one-year diplomat who had screwed up. If he succeeded, the Ambassador would take all the credit.

`You had better give me your card then, Mr. Chavez.'

`Thank you, sir. The Ambassador will be very grateful.'

`Mr. Chavez, forget the Ambassador and just think of two missionaries who, if they have come here as you have described and have been caught, will be beheaded by scimitar. Do you know what a scimitar is?'

`Yes, sir.'

`No, Mr. Chavez, you do not. Not until you have seen it in action as I have.'

He handed me a card from his wallet. His hand had a slight tremor to it. One of the phone numbers was of a Dahran cellphone series I recognised. The other one I did not recognise, but he said it was a special cellphone. I made a mental note not to use it.

`A. Budd Chavez'

`Yes, sir.'

`What does the A stand for?'

`Augustine, sir, but everyone calls me Budd.'

Everyone, Mr. ABC, but me. Augustine is a great name. If I call you Budd', you will know something is wrong. Do you understand?'

`Yes, sir.'

`Have you any information on the two missionaries?'

`Yes, sir. Here is a file on each of them--James Scott and Daniel Saxon.'

`Augustine, I shall ring you between four and five this afternoon and let you know what I have been able to find out. I am surprised that your own people don't know more. Are you not also surprised?'

`Sir, I am a genuine Cultural Attaché. I know absolutely nothing of anything else. I can barely find my way round the Embassy.'

`That, Augustine, is precisely why you have been asked to do this job.'

He did not seem to grasp the implication, Ivy Leaguer and all that he was.

When Augustine Budd Chavez had left, I looked at the two files. Pentecostal missionaries from a church I never heard of in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Abundant faith, abundant funds from an oil baron with religious inclinations, abundant enthusiasm. An infrastructure relying on informal exchange rather than bureaucracy. Authority derived from charisma rather than formal procedure. Tentative missionary activity in Europe, with encouraging results. Experience with mission in the Middle East--none.

James Scott and Daniel Saxon were two twenty-year old clean-cut, all-American, serious looking guys dressed in dark suits, who would have been more at home in football or baseball gear. An unrelated note on one of the files said that their church had just started the practise of encouraging young members to offer up a year or two of their lives to go out and teach the bible and the word of God. What it obviously did not offer in return was a basic preliminary survey of their hunting grounds!

How these two had gotten as far as Dahra seemed to be a bit of mystery. There was no paper trail from their home address to Dahra; no indication of a training programme for work in the Middle East. Nothing.

A further note stated that a Mr. Charles Brown at a hotel in Dahra was to have heard from them a week ago. They had not called and had failed to keep an appointment. This was their only direct link to Dahra.

A further note, with a date of the previous day scrawled by hand, stated that an elder supervisor--now suspended by their Church--had been `inspired by the Spirit', to allow the two to fly to Dahra with a case load of bibles.

I could understand how two Americans could get into Dahra quite easily, even bringing in a suitcase of bibles. Customs scrutiny is perfunctory on the way in, no more than waving a passport once you are on the pre-faxed list of passengers, but impossible to dodge for slaves seeking a way out.

What was that elder thinking of? That he was sending two overgrown, easily influenced kids to a ball game at the local Junior College?

I rang Mustafa ben-Mustafa and Ahmed al-Atti, the two owners of the slave auction rooms at al-Mera and al-Qatim. It was an outside shot and it failed. Neither had either of the two on their books.

Rather than pull in a large favour, I rang Karim al-Kibbe, the criminal lawyer at the firm which the Bank and I use. Had he heard anything of two Americans? I did not explain the ins and outs of it. No, he had not, but would I hold on the line, while he checked with a close friend in the Public Prosecutors Office?

`Sir Jonathan, my friend tells me that, yes, two Americans are being held for attempting to overthrow the Sheikdom. He did not wish to go into detail over the phone and if I want more information I would have to go to see him. Do you wish to tell me what is going on?'

`Karim, they are two American missionaries who came last week to teach the bible in Dahra.'

`Sir Jonathan, if I did not know you, I would say that you were joking. That is a treasonable offence here. You know how strict the religious aspect of things is here. And that would also explain why they are still alive.'

`Sorry, I don't understand the reference.'

`Sir Jonathan, as you know, justice is swift in Dahra and such criminals would be dispatched the day following their capture.'

When Karim al-Kibbe said `dispatched', I had the vision of a flashing scimitar in my mind's eye.

Karim continued.

`His Excellency the Sheik is on a State visit to Tunisia and Morocco. The courts are in recess this week until his return, which is the day after tomorrow.'

`And what happens then?' I asked stupidly.

`If what you say is true, the case of the two will be judged the following day and the day following that they will be dispatched.'

Karim was talking as if it were letters he was posting in the mail. No ifs, no buts, no shades of grey or doubt, but justice clear-cut, definitive and permanent.

`Karim, would you be able to represent them, if they plead guilty. You said to me one time before that there is no defence lawyer where there is a guilty plea, or something like that. Is that not so?'

`There is no defence lawyer where they are caught in the act, in flagrante delicto, as you say in England. If they were selling bibles, or giving them away, they are history, Sir Jonathan.'

`But Karim, if you ask for clemency because of their young age and that they were misguidedly sent to Dahra?'

`Sir Jonathan, I am but a criminal lawyer. I do not work miracles. If you like I shall have a quick word with my friend in Justice--he is just a block away--and I shall get back to you.'

A banker is supposed to bank money, to take money in on deposit and to give money out on loan. That midday and afternoon, I did neither.

It was after four before Karim al-Kibbe was back to me. He was now the lawyer of record for the two defendants. As such, he had seen the two missionaries for five minutes to inform them of the fact. They were asking for the Embassy. He had abruptly told them to shut up and not say a single word to anyone, until he told them to and when he told them, they were to repeat exactly what he said.

`Have they any idea of what they have let themselves in for?' I asked Karim.

`Clearly, no, Sir Jonathan. They look like two jocks who have been caught out on some caper.'

`Are they okay? They have not been hurt?'

`They are quite okay. They are not hurt at all. They were caught by the police giving bibles to some Dahrans in the street. In the street, can you imagine it? They are incommunicado at the Central Prison. It is a bit unusual to have seven, I think that is the number, criminals in prison at the one time. But as I have said the courts are in recess with the Sheik being away. I also asked for them to be kept strictly incommunicado from everyone including prisoners.'

`Why?'

`One of them, I think it was James Scott--they look almost identical down to their trimmed hair--said that God would look after them. He said that it was their faith that was keeping them alive. I do not want them mixing with the other prisoners, so that there might be a chance of them trying to proselytise the criminals there and have that added to the charges as well against them.'

For the second time in Dahra, I was glad that Karim al-Kibbe was a lawyer on my side of the table. He thought of angles where I did not even know such existed.

When I rang Augustine Budd Chavez on his Dahran cellphone number, he was sitting in a café on the other side of the square from the Bank and took less than two minutes to get up to my office.

`Have you informed your Ambassador of our talk this morning?'

`Yes, sir. I spent just under an hour with him.'

`You told him everything.'

`Yes, sir. I...not about the tape-recorder, sir. But absolutely everything else. '

`Tell him about the tape-recorder the next time you see him and tell him I told you to. The good news for your Ambassador is that the two missionaries are alive and well in Central Prison. I have appointed my own criminal lawyer a Mr. Karim al-Kibbe--have you got that name?--as their defence lawyer. As they were caught giving bibles away in the street, they are not entitled to a defence lawyer.'

I caught the look of incredulity in Augustine Budd Chavez's face.

`Their trial will take place in two days time. In the interim they are incommunicado from everyone. Their lawyer will plead leniency.'

`What are the chances of them getting off, or getting a fine?'

`Augustine, this is Dahra. They have been caught by the police in the act. A plea of innocent or a fine does not enter the equation. There are only two punishments. At their trial, James Scott and Daniel Saxon will either be enslaved for life or ordered beheaded three days from now.'

I looked at the young diplomat across the desk from me. His mouth was open. His lips were dry. His eyes wide.

`You had better tell your Ambassador the good and the bad news immediately. Augustine, are you cut out for all this cloak and dagger stuff? Are you?'

Such was the shock to his system that Augustine Budd Chavez left without saying good-bye. I did not hold that against him.

Two mornings later I was in the same courtroom where the attackers of my Palace and the murderers of Marek Czyblonzki had had their fate and sentences sealed.

Karim al-Kibbe came in and sat at my side.

`I have got the prosecution not to object to allowing an English interpreter to be present so that the two defendants can know what is going on. I have also got the prosecution not to object to leniency on the grounds that the police were immediately at the scene, that they collected all the bibles being distributed and that the defendants, on account of their youth, were misguided by persons unknown into carrying out their mission in Dahra.'

`Do the two know what to say?'

They will say nothing, but the one word guilty' when they are asked. If they are allowed plead for leniency, they will also say `Mercy'. I have warned them to do so and if they want to live they are to keep silent at all other times. I am afraid that they might just do or say something else. They have been asking for the Embassy again and do not realise that they are in quite a distinct jurisdiction.'

`They won't say anything, will they, Karim? Impress that upon them.'

`Sir Jonathan, it is as if they expect the US Marines to come in to their rescue at any moment sent by God himself to save them. If ever I had faith, I would want it to be something like theirs. They believe in what they are doing. They are very, very dangerous people in this situation, due to their innocent simplicity and faith.'

`Let us hope they stay quiet.'

`One last thing, Sir Jonathan, you have not said it expressly. If they are sentenced to slavedom for life, are you willing to accept ownership of the two?'

`Yes, I am.'

While the normal Courts are open to the public in Dahra, Karim had informed me that one involving treason was closed to the public; and anyway, the public preferred going to the spectacle of floggings and beheadings.

That morning, I noticed that Mr. Chavez was sitting to the side with another soberly dressed man with a tight haircut who would be more at home on a Marine recruitment poster. If ever I saw a military attaché, he was one. I acknowledged neither of their presences nor they mine and merely thought to myself that they must have pulled quite a few diplomatic strings to get inside the courtroom.

Three judges, all in their white gallabiyas crossed with the green sash of justice, entered the courtroom, one of whom I noticed was a woman and the last of the three was the Sheik himself followed by the Royal Scimitar of Dahra.

The proceedings went word perfect in both Arabic and English. The two defendants looked like two jocks that had been left on the bench during an entire match. I noticed that one was blinking his eyes a lot. The guilty plea was entered and the Sheik, surprising me, then asked in English, `Do the defendants ask for anything before sentence is pronounced?'

Karim al-Kibbe was on his feet immediately with a request for clemency and mercy from the court and repeated the reasons previously mentioned to me.

`And the defendants themselves, what do they ask?' the Sheik asked.

The two defendants were on their knees at the indication of Karim al-Kibbe and the word `Mercy' was heard twice.

The Sheik turned to his two co-judges and then pronounced the sentence of slavery for life and that the applicant's request had been granted. The Sheik's eyes briefly met mine and then went back to his papers as he signed them and passed them over to his two co-judges for counter-signing.

I realised that I was the applicant referred to and I now had two new slaves. When I turned round, Mr. Chavez and his companion had disappeared. Karim al-Kibbe came up to me and congratulated me on acquiring the two.

`Karim, the congratulations must go to you. I have no stomach for criminal trials and even less for those of treason. The stress of this court is unbearable and I am merely here as a bystander. I insist this time that you send me a fee for your services and I will take great delight in having the Embassy pay it back to me.'

The two American slaves were delivered to the Lime Palace just as I was sitting down to breakfast. I had assigned Food and Drink as the minders for the two new arrivals as they had completed their minding of teenager Terry Peoples.

James Scott and Daniel Saxon were relieved of their cuffs and chains and brought to the bottom of the steps of the veranda by Food and Drink. The other slaves were beginning to file out of quarters and as is customary were lining up for inspection which Aziz and Dumi were doing jointly that day.

The two new slaves looked oddly white around their midriff, both straw to dirty blond, both a bit unset at their nakedness which from time to time they tried to hide.

Food, as previously instructed, bent the first of them over, separating the slave's legs to about two feet apart and making the slave grasp the backs of his knees.

`Now, let me hear you count, one, sir, two, sir, as you receive punishment.'

I was quite amazed at Food's now almost perfect grasp of English.

The first of the two missionaries was bent down from the waist and clasping the back of his knees. The other was looking on in bewildered surprise, at him, at me, at Food.

The camel-cane in Food's hand flashed up and down and the slave was heard to count, `One, sir.'

At each stroke another count, up till ten.

The second slave was equally dealt with; no resistance was shown to Food.

When the punishment was over, I beckoned the minders to bring the slaves to very bottom step of the veranda.

`My name is Jonathan Martin and I am your new Master. Do you know why you have been punished?'

`No, sir,' one answered.

I was not yet sure of their individual names.

I looked at the other, `No, sir.'

There were tears on his face and nose.

`For being totally and utterly stupid. You have no idea how close you both came to being beheaded. I admire the faith and courage that both of you have, but never, ever let it get in the way of common sense, while you are my slaves. Do you really know your bible?'

`Yes, sir,' both of them chorused.

`Deuteronomy 6,16,' I said to both enquiring faces.

To Food and Drink, I said, `take them away for their training at the Lemon Palace.'

`Yes, Master,' both the assistant trainers answered with the usual grin of sheer happiness at having a Master's orders to obey.

At the Lemon Palace compounds, as slaves, they would be unique in that they would have both their balls and would be taken out each day at eleven and, instead of English classes, they would be instructed in the ways of the Palace by Food and Drink for the first fifteen days and then in sex techniques for the final fortnight.

It would be a number of months before I found out why the American Embassy had contacted me in this matter and then it was almost by accident, that I found out at all.

End of Chapter 9

To be continued . . .