The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor
This is the fifth chapter (ex twenty two) of a novel about present-day slavery and gay sex.
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 5 - The falseness of identity
I had instructed Ben Trant my secretary and his assistant Gianni Centini to input the data of the forty two invader slaves, as I was now mentally calling them, into the computer system from the tan coloured dossiers I had been given, each slave having his own separate folder.
I had been surprised on my second visit to the slave centre when Mustafa ben-Mustafa - `Jr.' as I always thought in my own mind of the nephew of the owner of the second slave centre at al-Mera who was helping out in the training of the invader slaves - approached me and requested permission to speak with me.
`Master, I have read the files of the new slaves which we have input onto our computer system.'
Mustafa Jr. according to his uncle was something of a whiz kid with computers in general.
Good,' I said. They all have a SIN number and their ankle bracelet is on. What is the problem?'
`I think one of the slaves, Master, is either an impostor or he is lying as to his identity,' and he carefully placed a set of printouts in front of me on the table.
I felt cold as if a cool wind had suddenly blown in through the centre.
The file was that of a French former paratrooper aged twenty nine years of age, Maurice Saliege, with a perfect set of abs and very prominent hip bones. He looked French, with dark rings under his eyes, pronounced cheek bones, and long ears.
At least, Maurice Saliege was the name he had given to his captors. None of the invaders had documents on them when captured and the two ships which had brought them and their dinghies and equipment, had disappeared into the Gulf long before daylight.
I read the file carefully. I looked at the standard photographs of full- and semi-profile, full body naked front and back -- a tattoo on the right arm and a fifth photo of the anus, a tightly clenched pucker which had not been used, at least for sex, as far as I could determine from a photographic perusal.
I read the file again. School in Toulouse, into the Army and then into a paratrooper regiment. An honourable discharge four years earlier and mercenary work after that. No family other than a brother, a baker in the home city of Toulouse.
`I am not seeing something here that you have seen, Mustafa.'
`Master, we have access to several international databases and there is no such person. There is however someone very like him.'
`Why would he have put in wrong details here? Did he believe they would not be checked? Does this mean that the details of the other new slaves are not exact either? Is he a mole of some sort?'
`It could well be the case, Master. It could well be the case that we have had fictitious identities created by all these mercenaries.'
`If you are wrong, Mustafa, we have lost nothing. If you are right, I think several files will be re-written and very fast. Where is this slave now?'
`Over there, Master,' and he pointed to the far side of the training centre.
`Go back to your duties and I shall look into it. You have done well.'
`Yes, Master.'
Just as I was dismissing Mustafa Jr., I saw the owner of the centre enter the door and I apprised Ahmed al-Atti of what Mustafa Jr. had told me.
'It is not unusual for a slave to invent some new things in his past. We have had a number of false identities given in the past which have subsequently come to light. We usually receive correct data from our suppliers or from the courts, but if the circumstances of acquisition have been chaotic, at times cargo is delivered without proper papers. We then have to retrieve data from the slave, and double-check each item. Mustafa is our man for these checkups, with a number of translators to help him out when needed. Register offices, tax records, military records, insurance policies, missing person police files, you name it.'
The young assistant dealer blushed, and looked pleased with the praise. I had hitherto believed to know personally only one skilled hacker, Jens Johanssen, my Danish slave. It seemed that I had been parsimonious.
'Ahmed, do we know exactly who we have in the centre or have they all invented names for themselves. It may be a mercenary thing to do.'
`Sir Jonathan, leave it with me and I shall report back to you, when the problem is solved.'
Three days later Ahmed was back to me and asked me to visit him.
Sir Jonathan, good news and bad news. Good news in that we have solved the problem. Bad news in that twenty four new' or real identities had been revealed among your forty two former slaves.'
`How did you achieve that, Ahmed? But first of all, who is this slave who called himself Maurice? If you don't mind giving me all the details?'
I was still unsure how many secrets of the trade the Dahran dealer was ready to disclose to a client.
`Very simply, Sir Jonathan. This slave in question you mentioned Maurice Saliege is in fact a Xavier LaGrange. I personally went to his holding cell and had him taken out and put on one of the training tables.'
`I then ordered that all the other slaves be taken out in chains and made to kneel facing the training table. They were told in English and in Arabic the reason why the slave was going to be punished.'
`Did you get the impression at that stage, Ahmed, that there were more there with false identities.'
`I did, Sir Jonathan. You can always smell fear. I had this Xavier pushed face down on the table and his legs kicked apart. His ankles were velcroed to two of the table-legs. His hands were still cuffed to the waist restraint. His chin was resting on the table. I could see that the slave's back showed his musculature devoid of fat and a deep crevice ran down his back from neck to coccyx, the vertebrae of his spine along the valley floor of the crevice. The waist restraint ensured that his shoulder muscles were taut and his hands at his side had nowhere to grip.
I ordered my Head of Training to deliver twenty of the best across that slave's backside. I then ordered the slave to count each stroke and then say Master, I am sorry,' after it.
`Sir Jonathan, the swish of the air being cut by a four foot camel cane has a noise all of its own. My Head of Training knows how to administer a punishment and his arm rose and fell and the cane flashed. Its downward stroke on the rounded buttocks of the former paratrooper had both the advantage of gravity and the experience of a good trainer behind it.
`Every slave reacts differently to a flogging. Everyone. Xavier LaGrange first gave a strangled cry. I would not know if he had been trying not to cry out or not, but the suddenness of the stroke had clearly caught him by surprise before his lungs could take their full fill of air. His eyes bulged. His body shook and, in turn, it shook the table itself with its vibration.
`I am not a cruel dealer, my business is buying and selling, and I am but a basic trainer of slaves, Sir Jonathan, certainly not as famous as yourself, but the slave had forgotten to count the stroke, so I raised the index finger of my left hand before his eyes.
The slave took a deep breath and then another one and said one, Master, I am sorry.'
`After the fifth stoke, the slave shuddered violently and was barely heard counting the stroke. From my vantage point, I could not see where on the buttocks the cane was landing, but I could see that it was not landing on either the lower back or on the thighs.
`At ten strokes, my Head of Training was breathing heavily. The slave had snot running out of his nostrils and tears down his face. His face was red with the exertion of shouting, crying out and counting off on time.
`When the next ten started to land with all the sharpness of a rifle shot in the dead of night, the slave cried out something unintelligible and shuddered again hard on the table. It took me a second or so to realise that he had sounded off the count in a language I took to be French. It was as if in his pain he was going back to basics and what was first learned in education. I don't think that he had even realised that he had changed languages.
`At the seventeenth stroke, again the slave gave a strangled cry and his hands were reaching back toward his backside as if to stop the punishment.
`There are those, Sir Jonathan, who would say that a flogging is no big deal unless done with whips or the like. A flogging is a flogging and is different for each and every one punished by it. Nerve endings cause such unexpected and unwanted pain that the body resists and jerks away from the source of the infliction. Had the slave not been tied by his ankles to the table-legs, he would have been very and truly across the table by the time the twentieth stroke had landed and been counted.
`When the flogging had finished the other slaves kneeling on the floor of the centre were looking opened-eyed and some open-mouthed at the red and ugly weals across a six-inch band of flesh on the slave's buttocks. The weals were ridges of bruised and raised flesh almost a half inch high.
`I went over to the prostrate slave and indicated to the trainers to release him and stand him up. Once he was on his feet, the cause of his shudders on the table was obvious. Several pools of semen ejaculate coated the table and his lower belly and pubic hair. The strokes across the buttocks had indeed landed on the slave's butt-plug many times and caused it to push again and again against the slave's prostate bringing him to multiple climaxes. I doubted from his cries that he was a masochist, but thought rather that very few can resist any prolonged or serious assault on the prostate gland without spectacular results.
`When the slave looked at the table and then at his lower body, for the first time he seemed to realise the state and reason of his and the table's condition. If his face was previously red, it became even redder in his embarrassment.
`A slave has to be totally submissive to direct command and he was such a one who was just waiting to be ordered. Pointing to the table, I ordered him to lick the table clean.
`As the slave set about his instructed task, I turned to the other slaves and repeated in English and Arabic that this slave was punished because he gave wrong details about himself; that the trainers will go over each of the details given to date and then these would be checked. I also took it upon myself to say--you can, of course, Sir Jonathan, overrule me on this--that if a slave changed his details there and then, there would be no punishment.
I can assure you, Sir Jonathan, that there was a unified Yes, Master' when I asked the kneeling slaves if they had understood.'
This was quite a speech by way of explanation from the centre's owner. I felt that Ahmed al-Atti had done a good day's work that day and subsequently I saw not just one but almost two dozen re-written reports from slaves who wished to clear the decks of any `mistake' in their identification details.
I find it always good to switch off totally from the problems of real life once the day is done. The problems at the slave training centre had upset me, I don't know why. But they had, and irritatingly so. Maybe it is because, in my own way, I do appreciate the truth in those around me. When a slave comes to me and admits having done something stupid -- which rarely happens, but it does -- I can never find it in my heart to punish the slave too severely, if at all. But give me a case of hypocrisy or downright lying, and that slave or business protagonist had better beware.
As I had so enjoyed the presence of both Dmitri and Jan in my bed some evenings previously, I had them both back that evening, though it did upset and cause a re-scheduling of my secretary's listing for that particular evening's enjoyment.
As I was being undressed for bed, the two slaves where `at display' in the centre of the bedroom where I could delight in the sight of their physiognomies before retiring to my large bed. The two blond slaves, though Jan was more fair than true blond, appeared in excellent condition. A light coating of Aloe sap would have been applied to their bodies, totally hairless except for that in their armpits, a small trimmed area of pubic hair and the closely cut hair on their heads.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dmitri up to his usual trick of having his penis come to full erection, flat up against his belly. He has this trick of using the muscle of his pubic, scrotal and pelvic areas to secure those magnificent erections of his.
Poor Jan! I saw him glancing down at his companion slave, his own penis only half-tumescent, but certainly nothing of which to be ashamed.
My attending slaves having withdrawn, taking with them my clothes of the day for cleaning and pressing, I beckoned the two slaves `at display' over to the bed.
`No duster, this evening then, Jan?'
`No, Master,' he replied with a grin
`The other night you and I enjoyed Dmitri. Now tonight, Dmitri and I are going to enjoy you.'
`Yes, Master.'
`You are well lubed? There is more in the bedside table if you think you need it.'
`No, Master, I am well lubed.'
Now follow my lead' I said as I lay down on the bed. Kneel with your legs on either side of my hips,' and I patted the bed just where I wanted his knees.
Jan straddled my lower body, his beautiful lightly tanned torso rising above me. I beckoned his face towards mine and put my hand at the nape of his neck to bring his moist lips down to mine. I let my hands run over his upper back and shoulders feeling the warmth of his skin. I could feel the galvanic response of his skin under my fingers and as my tongue went between his lips, I felt his breath on mine.
As soon as Jan was comfortably lying on top of me his chest on mine, I looked past him at Dmitri still erect and still standing at the bottom of the bed.
`Come kneel between my legs, Dmitri.'
I waited until this favourite slave of mine was in position, inching closer and closer to the spread cheeks of Jan's backside, kneeling as he now was between my legs and thighs.
`In your own good time, Dmitri, slowly does it.'
I saw him take his perpendicular cock in his hand than bring its swollen head down parallel to the bed, lining it up with Jan's awaiting anus.
`Gently, gently now, Dmitri, a gentle motion for the next twenty minutes. And you are not to ejaculate. A nice gentle motion.'
I lifted Jan's face from my neck where it had been resting and we resumed out kissing. With his intake of breath, I knew that Dmitri had penetrated him, and then with a slight movement through his entire body as it rested on mine, I felt his fucked by Dmitri begin.
Letting my nails run up and down Jan's back, letting my fingers wander over the protruding knobs of his spine, letting the palms of my hands rest on his scapulae, I let Jan kiss me with ever increasing passion and intensity. My fingers massaged his scalp and he gave a little moan. Was that a result of my finger massage or the Dmitri's cock massage of his prostate? I knew not. He moaned again and I kissed his face and brow and ears and neck.
Each of us brings our own intensity to the act of making love, and Jan Korda brought his by simply lying atop me and responding kiss for kiss, and where his hands could reach, touch for touch.
At around the twenty minute mark, I felt that Dmitri had eased up on his penetrations of Jan's anal passage. Well, he could see digital figures of the bedside clock for one thing! I looked at him over Jan's shoulder. There was a slight sheen of perspiration on the side of his forehead.
`Getting close, Dmitri?'
`Yes, Master.'
`Are you ready, Jan?'
`Yes, Master.'
`When you are ready, Dmitri.'
`Ready now, Master,' Dmitri said and I felt Jan's body being thrust forward up mine with the force of a full, hard and no-holds-barred penetration.
Dmitri's member is nicely proportioned and when it is hard, it is granite hard. Its length is in beautiful proportion to its thickness and when its foreskin is fully back up its shaft the tender pink under-skin of the shaft is finely veined.
For two, three and then four full trusts I felt in empathic reaction to Dmitri's full penetration of Jan Korda. Three loud gasps for air from Dmitri and I felt Jan tremble above me as his rectum filled with Dmitri's seed. I just kept his head on my chest, my arm holding it in place.
I looked back and up at Dmitri who was opening his eyes after his orgasm. I could not but help smile at him, and he reciprocated with a full grin.
`Now we change places.'
Jan slipped off my hips and Dmitri lay down on the bed. Jan quickly took up the identical position as before but now straddling Dmitri's hips as he lay down on his fellow slave's torso.
I went behind Jan, the former hotel porter, and kneeling between Dmitri's legs, excited and hard, I aimed the head of my penis for the anal passage which had been so well lubricated with cum in the previous minutes.
Slipping into Jan's back passage was like slipping one's fingers into a pot of warm olive oil. His sphincter muscle was not tight after its recent fucking and as I pumped his hole with my hardness, I felt him adjust his body back against mine, squeezing and relaxing his anal muscles as they milked my hard cock.
I did not intend to hang about and I did not. Eight, perhaps ten penetrations and I knew that my seed was rising beyond the point of no return. I knew my precum was adding to the already lubricated passage. Its tightness was intoxicating as I started to shudder and effected the release of my pent-up semen.
I looked down at Jan below me who was being held in some form of bear-hug by Dmitri, who was kissing Jan's face and neck in small pecks.
I shuddered to a halt and for fifteen seconds time stood still as post-coital blood pressure returned to normal.
I withdrew out of Jan and looked down at the wetness which went from the tip of my cock to my pubic hair, and I collapsed onto the bed.
Jan immediately rolled off Dmitri who sat up and brought his head down to my groin to take my penis in his mouth and clean the residual fluids of it and my inguinal area. I saw Jan's eyes widened at the personal sexual service being given, and I saw from his erection that he had not come yet. Some slaves get excited at seeing this intimate sexual service being performed, and I think Jan Korda is one such slave.
Such was Dmitri's dexterity in the manner of his cleaning me up that although like many men I have a sensitive penis head after coming, his laving tongue merely gave the softest of touches without the slightest irritation to the nerve endings of the tip of my cock and its corona.
I held open an arm and Jan snuggled up beside me.
`Okay, Jan?'
`Yes, Master, more than okay. Very happy to have been able to be of service to you tonight.'
Dmitri had finished his gentle sucking and cleaning, and I held open my other arm, and he too snuggled up beside me. I rewarded him with a kiss and he smiled in pleasure.
`Okay, Dmitri?'
Yes, indeed, Master. Thank you for Jan,' and he nodded over to the other slave cuddled in my other arm. Very nice, very tight,' he added.
`But loosened up very nicely for me by you. There are times when I love a buttered bun,' I said and smiled at both the slaves beside me.
The next thing I remember of that night was that it was not night at all but an early hour and the first rays of purple were streaking the morning horizon. The two slaves were either side of me, Dmitri snoring slightly on every third breath, and Jan solidly asleep, and myself warmly sandwiched in the middle.
`Yes, indeed, I love a buttered bun,' I said in the interior calm of my own thoughts and closed my eyes to catch another hour of sleep.
Just in case Dmitri might overestimate his importance in my esteem, I had him report to the Stables Manager after breakfast. A couple of weeks in the fresh air and under the Dahran sun on the farms would do him well and tone him up with that natural muscle which honest farm labouring brings.
End of Chapter 5
To be continued