Dahran

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the third chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and present-day slavery.

Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, sex, submission

This novel `The Dahran Sands' is the eighth novel in the Dahran series

If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage now.

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The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this series] are now available as full novels in Acrobat .pdf format on my website at http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

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Chapter 3 -- The foggy city

Instruction in youth is like engraving in stone

(Moroccan proverb)

I flew to London for our regular meeting of the Board of Directors on the third Monday of the month. Deckams is the Bank where I work and am a partner.

More precisely, I flew ahead on the previous Saturday and my other two junior branch partners, Gustav Ahlson and Colin Bowman followed on the early morning Monday flight. The reason being was that I had an important meeting with the treasurer of a Club where I am an overseas member.

I stayed at my usual hotel just off The Strand, arriving as I did in swirls of fog coming up the Thames estuary. I noted that the poste restante at Deckhams had been delivered over from the Bank to the hotel's reception in anticipation of my arrival.

Three letters were of more interest than others in the pile. The first was from Jeremy Burrows from my old school, St. Timothy's, for whom I had secured a scholarship to Bristol. He was bursting with news and uni' snippets of information, revelling in study and societies and might, just might, have a girlfriend'. He had written to me twice before care of the Bank's head-office and I felt that I now had an unrequited bi-monthly pen-pal.

The second letter was from Jason Smithers who was Jeremy's best friend and also at Bristol. It was a careful letter about his feelings, never before expressed to anyone, let alone a man, and how he was coming to grips with his sexuality. He had joined the Gay Society, but was a backbencher and backseat passenger rather than a front-line activist. And between that and the University Cricket Club, it was the only social and sporting outlets he could afford time-wise, such was the pressure of study even from the very first term.

`I am grateful for you-know-what that night' was the only reference to his one-night stand with me, the loss of his virginity and the start of the true adult awareness of his own sexuality.

I hoped in my heart that Jason Smithers' undoubted future academic brilliance and success would be matched by his success in his personal and love life.

The one thing he mentioned which indeed was news to me, as I had not heard it mentioned yet in any of Josh Green's reports, was that there had been mention in the Times of the puzzling disappearance of the rising barrister Nigel Broaders BL'. Jason knew him as he had fagged for him in his last year at the school, and that it was feared his disappearance might from a case of amnesia' according to colleagues.

The third letter was, in fact, a letter and a book. My old geography teacher, Graham Hodson, had taken a surprising early retirement from my alma mater, declining to go back after the summer having accepted a golden handshake from the board so as to let some new blood onto the faculty. In three months, he had put the finishing touches to a book on his teaching career of thirty years and his methods of `Engraving in human stone' was a play on the wording of a Moroccan proverb about teaching young people.

His letter also said that he really had never thanked me for putting his mother's name on the donation which I had made through him for the new Harris Science Building, and that it had, in fact, determined him to do the things he really wanted to do with the rest of his life, the first of which was to finish the enclosed book.

The second thing he was planning was a long holiday and doing some pruning of his fruit trees, and that the next time I was in London, he wanted to invite me to dinner; `his treat' as he put it. His phone number was beside that paragraph, and I looked at it for a while before finally picking up the phone in the hotel to call him.

Time-wise, we could not agree dinner, so we settled for lunch and Graham travelled up by train to London and to my hotel from Midminster in the West Counties where he lived close by the old school.

As we sat across from each other in the hotel's restaurant for lunch, I complimented Graham on his book.

`Education is not really my field, but I started reading it yesterday evening and found it compulsive reading. Maybe there were so many references to things and people I remembered that I could not put it down until I had finished it just before midnight.'

Graham looked at me over his glasses and commented with a rue smile, `the accrued wisdom of a lifetime being read in a day'.

`I didn't mean it that way, Graham. It's just that I felt at times you were talking about me.'

`Yes, Jonathan, you and three thousand other boys. At one level, boys are all alike. They have minds to be filled. They have to be given values and purpose. They have curiosity. They have a thousand questions, some requiring answers, others requiring reassurance. They wish to explore and understand the world with their hands and minds. They have bodies which are growing, surprising and confusing them. They have muscles and sinews to be exercised. They are acquiring values and purpose, looking at what their surroundings offer. They are constantly observing, scrutinizing, admiring, copying, and frequently rejecting. Sometimes they weigh and question; sometimes they unquestioningly absorb what seems convenient at the time.

`But at a second level, each and every one of them is different, a singular challenge each in his own way. I remember so many for differing things. Many are just a blur at this stage. Perhaps half a dozen stand out for a particular brilliance.'

Graham Hodson was polite if anything and did not try to embarrass me by falsely including me in his half-dozen.

`What are you going to do with all this free time of yours now that you have finished your book?'

`I think, Jonathan, I shall go to Italy to see how they grow kiwifruit. China is a bit far.'

I looked at him.

`Kiwifruit?'

`Apart from geography which I taught for more years than I care to remember, I am also a keen grower of soft fruits and have actually written four papers for a food company on the best types to use for fruit preserves. Now I have turned my attention to kiwifruit, the fruit actinidia chinesis also known as the Chinese gooseberry or the monkey peach. I have almost an acre of several kinds of soft fruit at home, and as England is now becoming warmer and warmer, all this global warming thing, I am thinking there may be a variety of kiwifruit which would grow and crop well here.'

I looked at my former teacher and thought `to each their own'. For some minutes, I was filled in by him on the history of the kiwifruit, its good points, its foibles, how its crops covered no less than two hundred square miles in China alone and large tracts now also being grown in Italy and other warm countries.

`It grows in sand?'

`Even in sandy soil, if well-fertilised and with lots of water. It is a greedy plant. But once planted, it lasts thirty years and crops each year, a minimum two and a half tons to the acre. Not that I would be growing anything near an acre of it; just an interesting hobby of combining geography and fruit cultivation.'

`Graham, I want to hire you as a consultant on a project. Would you write a paper for me on the kiwifruit? Go to China for me. Go to Italy for me. I have large farms in Dahra and a large workforce and could always do with a trouble-free crop.'

`I thought you were in banking, Jonathan? And me, a consultant no less in my old age?' Graham said with a chuckle and a smile.

`Graham, you told me you are fifty five, so none of the old age thing. And yes, indeed, I am in banking but I have over five thousand acres where I live which perhaps you might like to visit one day. My home is large by English standards, comfortable but a bit spartan.'

`Spartan as in no female touch?'

`No female touch.'

`Neither in my life. Never had the time, you know, nor the inclination and sex has always seemed such a grey area for me. Maybe it was I did not try or it was because I did not want to, or nobody wanted me, or both,' he said with a self-reproaching comment.

After lunch, we walked the Embankment, and the fog lifted as if on cue, to reveal a newly misted London, old in location, but new in opportunities and horizons.

That evening I had one of the better escort agencies send me around a playmate as a distraction for the evening. All I asked for was that he be working class and well-behaved. If he was going to be shagged in my hotel, I certainly did not want a scene.

Just after eight, having finished a light dinner on my own in the hotel's restaurant, I was just back up in my room when the phone rang. It was reception.

`A Mr. Smith to see you, sir. He says you may be expecting him.'

`Send Mr. Smith up, please.'

A minute later there was light knock on the door. On opening it, there was a man dressed in jeans and a sheepskin jacket, clean shaven and mouse brown hair, a little taller than myself.

`Mr. Martin?'

`Mr. Smith? Do come in. You are very punctual. I had asked for someone at eight, and it is just that now.'

The man did not say anything clearly waiting for my lead as he entered the hotel suite.

`Call me, Jonathan. Would you like a beer, or something, first?'

`Not before work, sir...Jonathan. Maybe afterwards, if you allow it, sir. My name is Ryan. Ryan Smith.'

The name sounded phoney and invented for the purposes of being an escort.

`Why don't you take off that jacket and put it over the chair?' I said and went over, to one of the arm chairs in the suite, sat down and faced him as he took off the jacket.

`Now strip off the rest.'

There is something in the male psyche about taking orders, about having to obey, about not having the choice. The one who accepts the order places himself in a position of obedience, subservience and lower rank.

Were I to have pulled the clothes off the young man before me, it would not have been as effective sexually as him being a male having to strip off his own clothes at my order and behest. He was placing himself under my control. He was not resisting my order. He was going to be my junior in sex, my servant in matters sexual, the minion of my commands.

Ryan Smith had obviously been told how to undress for a client. He did it slowly and carefully, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and pulling it off over his head so that his upper torso was fully stretched and revealed as he did so. He undid the steel buttons on his jeans, not fast but certainly not slowly, to reveal blue undies, and standing on one leg and then on the other, undid his trainers and slipped off his socks. Finally, standing up straight, he let his jeans fall around his ankles and then hooked his thumbs under the blue undies which already showed a nice bulge. They joined the jeans on the floor, as he stepped out of both jeans and underwear one foot at a time.

I noticed that he swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking, as he straightened up and he gave his circumcised cock a passing touch as it stood straight out from his body.

His cock was not long, but it was quite thick and its corona flange was nicely mushroomed. Its piss hole seemed rather large for the cock head itself.

`Ryan Smith, you are one good looking man,' I said from the comfort of my armchair.

`Thank you...Jonathan. What would you like me to do, sir?'

`Your accent is East End is it not?'

`That's right. You know your London, Jonathan. I was born and bred in Beckton. I have lived there or close to it all my life.'

`What you do work at? This evening job is not full-time is it?'

`No, sir. I'm a qualified electrician. I earn good money. I'm actually on a customer call out at the moment,' he said with a half-smile.

I got the joke in his latter statement. But there was something not quite right with the first part. I could not immediately place my finger on it.

`Go in and take a good shower, Ryan. Use the douche as I'm going to fuck the life out of you. There's lubricant inside in the bathroom.'

He nodded and headed in the direction of the bathroom which I had been pointing to.

As I heard the shower running, I got up from the armchair and undressed at my leisure. I piled up the pillows on the hotel room bed and lay back on them in my boxers.

Some minutes later, a slightly damp Ryan Smith came out of the bathroom. He looked a little ill at ease as if feeling his way with each step he took.

I patted the bed beside me and slipped off the boxers.

`Ryan, this is going to be a straight fuck. First, on your back and then, on your knees. Okay? But first put a condom on me,' and I pointed to some I had left on the bedside table.

`Okay, sir' and this he did before he lay back on the bed and pulled his legs up over his head. His body smelled of lemon balm or some such bathroom soap.

His was not a body that I would normally allow among my own slaves. From throat to groin, he was covered in body hair ranging from mouse brown to dark brown. He had two full pits of dark hairs, still slightly damp from the shower, or else he was slightly perspiring at the thought of his own fucking. His groin had a thick bush of lustrous brown hair and his cock was fully hard, with the smallest drop of precum in the piss slit.

I was already hard after the day that was in it and the sight of his body. Grabbling a pillow, I pushed it under his raised behind to give him extra elevation and a better angle of entry for myself.

`Thanks, sir,' was what he said.

I positioned my cock at the moist entrance of his anus and with one fluid push pressed in. There was just the hint of resistance and I was in. I lent forward to adjust my body against his, and said `Now, let's both enjoy this.'

For fifteen minutes, I pistoned his back passage with a variety of techniques, from fast to slow, from andantino to allegro con moto. From his reactions, I knew he was not as experienced as I, either in years or in technique. I had found the measure of his prostate gland early on, and ignored it in the angle of my thrusts when I saw how its being touched affected him bringing him close to climax.

However, I did not ignore his prostate in my last four minutes where I changed the angle of my entry and my every thrust in and my every pull out was a deliberate contact with that most sensitive of ecstatic interior spots in the male's sexuality.

I saw Ryan Smith's eyes finally widen as he realised that he was not just being fucked, but that he was being fucked majestically. So much so, that he was first to ejaculate. The fact that he was in the hands of a sex master struck home after his penis started to seriously lose precum from its slit and his lower belly was covered with its slickness, and he realised that cockiness and all as he might have had of assuredness coming in through the door of my hotel bedroom was no use. Now he was not in control of his own sexuality; but I, his client, was.

A further half a dozen or so exactly positioned thrusts and Ryan Smith gave a gasp and a half-shout and I felt spatter after spatter of his semen up against my belly in its thrusting action as it covered his body.

In my mind, I had been going over balance sheets and profit and loss figures, a great way not to come during sex. I closed the financial files in my mind and switched on the pleasure files of sweaty armpits, mushroom headed cocks, twitching coronas, hard nipples, and I felt my juices rise to the simmer, and then to the boil, and with one pushing thrust which would have done any birthing mother proud, I shot my load into his rectum.

I lay over and in Ryan for the best part of a minute as my pulses and pressures dropped, and my twitching cock gave up of its last fluids.

`Ryan, you are one good fuck on your back. I am sure you are going to be just as good on your knees in half an hour. You okay?' I said as I disposed of the condom into the basket beside the bed.

`Yes, sir. I've never been ridden like that before.'

`You're not long at this game, Ryan, are you?'

`No, sir, just a month.'

`Let's rest for half an hour and I'll see just how good you really are. Would you like a beer, or something?'

`If there's a soft drink, I'll take that, Jonathan. I'll be driving later on.'

I thought that it was a good and diplomatic choice of words. Not when I leave you', but rather later on'.

`Back to the East End?'

`Yes, sir.'

`And who's waiting for you in the East End.'

He was silent a moment and then said, `Can I get you a drink, Jonathan, when I get one for myself?'

Yes, Ryan, anything soft,' I said propping myself on an elbow as he slid off the bed and headed for the fridge in the bedroom. You're trying to change the topic of conversation.'

`I'm not used to talking about myself with clients, sir. Usually, it's over and done with in ten minutes and then the punter can't wait to be shot of me. And they said at the agency never give out personal details. No offence, sir.'

`No offence meant, Ryan, and no offence taken. You're clearly a nice guy, and in this business, you are one good fuck and I'm going to prove that again in half an hour.'

Ryan had come back with two glasses of Sprite and he blushed slightly at my comment.

`Electrician?'

`Yes, sir. Great job. I work with a great firm and it pays very well.'

`Then you're not in this evening business for the money.'

He looked at me and was silent, and merely raised a glass in toast, as if to say, `here's to your good health but you just heard what I said about the agency'.

Something about my comment had not rung true and I mused out loud `but what if you were in it for the money? Why would a good looking guy, who can obviously pull both girls and guys, whichever he chooses, with a great paying job with a good firm, need more money?'

When I said it from his reaction, I knew that I had hit home -- or at least, hit some point of truth and reference.

There are subtle nuances in human reaction and behaviour which only the human eye can spot, and in his physical reaction, those nuances were there.

I took Ryan Smith's cock in my hand and started playing with it. I could feel it getting hard again almost immediately.

`Quick turn around time, without a doubt.'

`Very quick, Jonathan.'

I looked at his tanned hands and although they were well-muscled with little fat on them, the hands of a person who used them from physical jobs every day, I also noted that there was a slight difference in the colour of the skin on his fourth finger.

`What time do you have to be home?'

`Mid...'

I had caught him off guard. He looked annoyed.

`I noticed that you had taken off your wedding ring.'

`Look, Jonathan, I said and I mean it, I am not going to talk about my personal life or my wife or kid.'

I looked at him and when he said `kid', there was something in the way he said it, as he stopped himself very abruptly and having said it, he regretted its escape into a more public arena than he had ever intended.

He was half-off the bed, the glass of Sprite in his hand untouched.

There are times when words should not be spoken, when they break the spell, and this was a moment when a single word had woven a spell over him and over me.

I took the glass from Ryan's hand and put it on the bedside table. He was looking half at me, half in the distance as if his evening was already over.

I adjusted the pillows for two, fluffed them up a bit, and half-sat, half-propped myself up against one. I patted the other with my hand, and Ryan came back fully onto the bed and lay back on the pillow beside me. I slipped my hand under his neck and around his shoulder.

`Now tell me what this is all about, and fuck the agency's guidelines.'

He was silent for a couple of seconds and then seemingly looking down the length of his body, he said very quietly, `my kid is sick.'

I pulled him a little closer and he looked at me, `he's very sick and I can't do more than I am doing.'

There was both pride and regret and self-recrimination all rolled up into one in what he said.

Chris is what's called a blue baby,' he continued. He's got a hole in his heart. In fact, he has more than one of them. They call it ASD, atrial septal defect. I know more about it now than most GPs, I can tell you,' he said with some hollowness in his voice.

`He's had two operations so far and is going to have to have at least another two within the next year, and then one every couple of years until he's a teenager. And I will do everything I can to see that he gets every operation he needs. He's one terrific kid.'

`Is all of this not covered by the NHS, public health service?'

`The first operation, yes, because it was life or death and he was only six months old. The second operation was necessary but not vital. "Not vital" they said as his life was not immediately threatened. Chris could not breathe and was on oxygen every day. Some joke, "not vital". We asked if it could be done privately. What would it cost? When we heard the cost of fifteen thousand, there were no ifs or buts from either of us. That wiped out our savings; with the next operation due in two months, it will be the same again. Six weeks ago, I heard of the agency. Four weeks ago, I went with my first client. Are you happy now, sir?'

There are times when, as I say, words are superfluous. I guessed his last slightly bitter question was rhetorical because I did not reply to it.

`He'll never know, Ryan, just how much you love him will he? It is quite one thing to tell a kid later on in life how you spent the family savings on his operations. It would be quite another thing to tell him that you sold your body for him as well.'

I could feel Ryan Smith, tense up in my arm.

`Do you know, Ryan, I think we'll save that second fuck for a second time? What do you say? Or are you paid by the hour?'

He looked at me.

`I've to ring the agency when I leave you. Over two hours, your credit card is on a different rate, and were it an all-nighter extra again.'

`Have you eaten this evening, Ryan?'

`No, not yet. I had a slice of leftover pizza at the firm before I left.'

`I'm starving for some reason. I had a light lunch and an even lighter dinner. It must be the cold of London. They have a late night buffet downstairs. Let's clean up and have a bite to eat, that way you'll make your call in over the two hours mark.'

`You don't want more sex, Jonathan?'

`I want a good shower. Come on.'

For the first time, that evening Ryan Smith smiled a truly genuine smile.

In the shower, I washed Ryan down with the detachable shower head, and I handed him a cloth for him to do my back, which he did slowly and gently. I actually got another hardon out of it.

I dressed casually with a pair of slacks and a blazer before going down to the buffet. It was one of those self-service affairs and we helped ourselves. There were only three other tables taken in the restaurant at that hour, so I chose a table off to the side by ourselves.

As we sat down I said to Ryan looking at my watch, `It's just after ten, so you are effectively on overtime now with the agency, and clearly a good fuck doesn't kill your appetite.'

He looked with a grin at the amount on the plate, `No, it hasn't killed my appetite at all, Jonathan. I actually ate very little today. However, I may have trouble staying sitting down, because I can tell you I have never been fucked that long before. What did you mean up there by saying you'd save the second fuck for another time? Will there be another time?'

`Ryan, I don't work in London, but I am back here on the third Monday of every month. I always stay at this hotel and you can leave a note in an envelope for me at reception if you ever need or want to, and I'll get it when I'm here. Third Monday, remember.'

He nodded his understanding.

There was only water on the table, so I took out my wallet and gave Ryan a tenner and said, `I could kill for a beer. Be a good lad, and get me one out in the bar. I know you're going to be driving, but you can get one for yourself, if you want.'

`What do you drink?'

`Anything they have on draught.'

As he left for the bar, I took out my chequebook and wrote a cheque to `Bearer' for fifteen thousand. There's no fool like an old fool, I thought to myself. I could quite easily have found out if there was truth in his story. The agency alone knew me long enough over the years. Hell! One of their former staff, Ross Wells, was even now my slave, though they at the agency , of course, did not know that.

I folded the cheque and put it on Ryan's side plate, and tucked into the bécasse au fumet de pomerol which for woodcock in a late night buffet was superb.

Ryan was back with two pints of beer.

`You didn't say whether you wanted a glass or a pint, so I got you a pint,' and he put the change of four pound coins on the table beside me.

`A pint is fine. Your good health,' I said as I sipped it.

Ryan had sat down at the table and was adjusting a napkin across his lap, when he saw the folded cheque on his side plate. I saw him looking sideways at me as he picked it up and read it.

`Is this your idea of a fucking joke?' he hissed angrily, but loudly enough that a couple at a table some distance away heard the sound.

No, Ryan. The cheque's for real. I made it out to Bearer' as I was not sure if `Ryan Smith' was your, shall we say, professional name or your real name.'

He was looking at me as if he had been kicked in the gut.

`You doubt my name, but you don't doubt the story.'

`Yes and no, in that order. I don't think that anyone would talk of a son as you did with such emotion and spin it as a lie. If you did, you deserve an Oscar for it. I think you have a kid who is sick. The cheque will help.'

Ryan took a draught of his beer.

Ryan Smith is my real name,' and out of a pocket in the sheepskin jacket on the seat beside him, he took a small wallet and handed me a card, Ryan Smith. Senior Electrical Installer,' it said. The name of the firm meant nothing.

`And I have a son, Chris, who is seriously ill and whom my wife and I love to bits.'

He was fingering the cheque, looking at it front and back.

`How do I explain this to anyone?' as he fiddled with his food and finally took a bite of it on his fork.

`Don't. Open a second account at your Bank. Call it your overtime account, if you must. You are on overtime aren't you,' I said between bites.

`Some fucking overtime. Or should that be some overtime fucking?'

`Ryan Smith, watch your language!'

`It is a real cheque, Jonathan? You're not playing with my head on this, mate, are you?'

`Mate?'

Sorry, sir. Sorry, Jonathan. It's just a bit much to take in all at once. You know my wife said to me that all this overtime', because I have been out three times each week on `overtime', has been exhausting me sexwise.'

`So what does good sex pay in London nowadays, Ryan?'

`I get half the payment to the agency. They're quite upfront and honest on that. Usually two hundred or two hundred and fifty a night. I made just three thousand in the last month. All cash. The agency said I have so much energy, it is because I am fresh and have a lot of spunk to get rid of, that after a while I would just settle down to twice a week or so.'

He was silent as he took another bite of the meat on his plate and then he put down his knife and fork.

With this, Jonathan,' he was holding the cheque up - I can just go back to Becton each night and play with Chris.'

`Ryan, let me know how things get on. Doctors are good nowadays and if surgery is done on time, patients live long and happy lives. That will be the case with Chris. A long and happy life, and he will never have to know how far or what his father was willing to do for him.'

`I still owe you a fuck on all fours.'

`Yes, you still owe me a fuck. Now be quiet and eat up before it all gets cold; and put that cheque away before you lose it.'

End of Chapter 3

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