The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor
This is the fifth 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 http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/
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Chapter 5 - The Swedish problem
Do today what you want to postpone until tomorrow.
(Lebanese proverb)
After the installation of the two Russian barber slaves, one of the day's small pleasures was the evening presentation of the slaves who had been to the barbers' shop that day. It was not an inspection as such, as the inspection of the slaves takes place early morning by their Supervisors. It is strange how our minds give possession to those who use things. The barbers being slaves could not own their' premises, yet force of habit makes us say and think that it is their shop'.
On the days I would return from the Bank at five, there I would find lined up in the courtyard the ten to twelve slaves -- it started off as a low number but in time increased - who had gone to the barbers that day. They would at times have been waiting up to half an hour for me on bank days, depending on traffic, and the warmth of the afternoon sun brought a sheen of light perspiration to their skin. It was the presentation of the slaves at their physical best, proudly presenting their bodies to their Master! What was also clear was that their regular exercising in the pool and gym areas was paying off.
I got into the habit of simply handing over my briefcase and papers to an awaiting Ben Trant, my secretary or Gianni Centini, his lover and assistant, and then taking some minutes viewing the lined-up slaves.
I find that my slaves are genuinely appreciative of the time I spend with them. As a Master, I could well ignore them, simply use them for the services they provide for me and my Palaces, but there is something very pleasing about a well-turned out slave, who has his body buffed to perfection with a light coating of Aloe cream, whose trim frame and musculature shows also the results of daily exercise of physical labour on my farms.
I take my time inspecting the firm texture of their skin, the softness or wiriness of their remaining body hair, their nipples standing proud in the warm evening sun, the sporting of a half-tumescent cock or their simple relaxed genitals set off a perfect trim of pubic hair. I find that a number of slaves in my presence as an authority figure in a smart business suit start to get hard-ons. It is always a pleasant sight.
Although slaves generally do not speak to me unless spoken to, while in appreciation I run my hands over their bodies, I always make the effort to engage with the slave and compliment him on his good turn out. It makes for good slave management and a grateful slave who knows his Master is pleased with his body. Overall, I am generally pleased and have been from that very first evening with the two Russian barbers' contribution to the life of the Palaces.
Upon reflection, I think the barbers' shop was an inspired step by Randy and simply proved to me yet again, that if you give slaves some responsibility -- within limits of course - and oversee them well, in their own area of work expertise they will make good suggestions time and time again.
It gave each of the Overseers and slaves a further sense of their personal grooming which is important to me as Master and it showed to the slaves the importance that I attached to them being well-turned out, even though they stand naked for my pleasure and do not wear a single item of clothes or footwear, only their GPS bracelet.
At dinner one evening in late December, Gustav had told me that he was making the elderly slave, Jon Lundt, his new Head of Household instead of Olaf. I merely nodded at the time, not in approval, as it was not my call, but in a sign of understanding both him and his reasoning. I felt that Gustav was coming to grips with his changed realisation of his own slave situation.
Gustav put his entire contingent of slaves, with the exception of the elderly Jon Lundt, into the compounds for open-ended retraining. On this occasion, he had clearly done on that fateful day for the slaves what he might have wished to postpone till the morrow.
When Yuriy had told me this, I looked at him.
`The retrainers were able to fit them all in?'
`No problem, at all, Boss. They actually took it as a bit of challenge. We spread the slaves over four of the five compounds. It was the agreed opinion of the Overseers that they did not need the compounds to be in sequence. Master Gustav is going to find some very well-trained and humbled slaves at the end of their training. Some of his Swedes were never fitted with a butt-plug before their first night in the retraining cells, after Master Gustav had thrown them out of his Palace,' Yuriy replied with a wicked smile.
My eyebrows must have formed at least one question mark.
Boss, you should have seen the lubed butt-plugs being inserted in the first compound. One of the Swedes even shouted Gustav does not know you're doing this. He wouldn't allow this.' You know what, Boss? Rob Kuiper took the butt-plug out the Swede's hole and gave it to him to kiss before pushing it right back in and then he got the slave to repeat fifty times `I love my Master Gustav' as the slave was obliged to do fifty fast push-ups. Rob had no sympathy at all for that uppity Swede.'
`Uppity Swede? Yuriy, your English is now better than mine.'
`That's because I have a good Boss and Master,' Yuriy flatteringly replied.
I met Spyros, the assistant Overseer of the second compound, quite by accident the following day as I was in the courtyard.
`How are Gustav's Swedes coming along?
`Boss, I have them racing around the compound like cheetahs in the mornings and doing the swinging bars like monkeys in the afternoons. I have had to use the cane a fair bit. More than I would normally use on new slaves, but these Swedes, I know some of them reasonably well, they have over the years forgotten all the training they received before their auctions. Boss, whoever said that Master Gustav was treating them as friends and equals may have been right. Friends are friends, Master. But slaves are slaves, including myself, Master.
`I have Björn, Master Gustav's former special friend in my compound. Boss, I just don't like his attitude and I had him on the flogging frame yesterday for all to see. Almost thirty strokes with a camel-cane. He would not count them off, and I told him his flogging would actually start when he started counting. He started after the eighth stroke when he saw I was serious. You know, Master, I was annoyed. I think he believes this training is some form of joke, and let me tell you before he leaves my compound, João and I will have shown him that our training compound is no joke.'
I nodded my approval as I am sure Gustav would have done had he been around. I smiled to myself at Spyros referring to the second compound as `his'.
`Carry on, Spyros. Master Gustav wants results and for his sake, so do I.'
A Master's privileges are many. Inside the walls of his home his word is law, his wishes fulfilled, his merest whims seen to in a flash. In fact, the Master's word is life and death. Therein lies a danger. Because if a Master intimates that he likes orange juice for breakfast, hell will freeze over before any one of his slaves will dare suggest grapefruit or cranberry juice. This will happen if one's slaves are menial and untrained for more than a set number of jobs.
Many of my fellow slave-owning Masters in Dahra follow the latter line of thought and train their slaves for the most boring and repetitive jobs, for field or other menial work where thought rarely if ever enters the equation, and use them as domestic servants. Dahrans historically, it seems to me, prefer to give skilled and qualified jobs to free people. Some, but very few, slaves become the confidants of their Masters. A minority of slaves work inside the Palaces of their Masters and their various homes, but the vast majority of any Master's slaveholdings are for outside work. These latter slaves are sold when too old or unable to perform adequately the menial tasks for which they were first acquired, and by acquired, I mean bought.
At times, I have wondered about the discrepancy between the extent to which I, with a newcomer's enthusiasm perhaps, use slaves on my own properties, and the more restrained usage of slaves by Dahrans. If slave labour is traditionally limited to certain heavy menial work and domestic service, is this because Dahrans habitually underestimate their slaves' potential? Or are there other reasons why on a wider scale my use of slaves for engineering, secretarial or computer networking jobs, to name but a few, is not being copied by anyone else in Dahra? Being however a private citizen and not having an entire Sheikdom to worry about, I admit that I usually push these questions aside.
In my own Palaces, I have never officially muzzled the ability of my slaves to be inventive. Flavio, my chef and head of many staff in the kitchens, is effectively the ruler of his own small fiefdom of authority. I rarely interfere in its workings. I have given him broad preferences and left their application to him and his inventiveness. Rarely am I disappointed, and more often than not surprised at the results.
My slaves, almost all of whom have been ripped out of their old environments by being lifted or by being imprisoned and then shipped to Dahra ending up in my eventual ownership, all take time to settle in to accepting my position as Master. Most, with extremely few exceptions, break during their training in the compounds, realising that resistance is futile and sooner rather and than later, seeing that my rule of their lives is not cruel but pragmatic and bearable, settle into regular patterns which have no weekends, no feasts, no celebrations, but simply the general or specific serving of my own needs and those of my Palaces.
In this sense, they are told what I like and what I do not like, and in this way, they know that to stay in my favour and avoid punishment they must do as they are trained and told to do.
In one way, the policy of few words but carrying a big stick does pay off. Some punishments are visible, such as the waterwheels, the infrequent flogging, or the retraining over days or weeks in the compounds as with Gustav's slave at the moment. However, all my slaves have one safety net. They know that I do not sell my slaves --well, apart from some few transfers -- technically a sale in Dahran law -- to Aziz al-Aziz, now my Head of Household at the Lime Palace and to my nephew, Jack Tuttle and his wife Fiona.
Those who have come directly into my ownership do know, either personally or from others who had previous Masters, the type of life to be avoided at all costs that could await them were they ever to be sold. This is a threat I have rarely held over them, but held it over them I have, and whatever about my non-history of selling slaves, I could change that at a whim, and they know it.
By no stretch of the imagination must my Palaces be regarded as some form of slave utopia. They are not. The physical Palaces and their slave occupants have no ultimate will or freedom of their own. Their freedom of mind is relative. Their freedom of action is only within the Palaces' limits and in alignment with my wishes. To my mind the loss of freedom, be it civil, personal or of the mind, is the ultimate slavery.
A Master will rarely hear questions from a slave whose entire existence depends on his will - let alone criticism. A slave's horizon remains limited to what the owner allows him to know, and is cut off from everything the owner deems unnecessary. I encourage my Overseers to put suggestions to me. Free exchange of opinions, however, is not possible.
Dahra's ruling class consider slavery a convenient institution which they are willing to uphold at considerable expense. In Dahran households, slaves are used as servants, and sexually too, but to discuss the estate and private affairs there are usually other free people around.
I have chosen differently. In part, this is, of course, because I live alone without a family or partner. Perhaps my choices have been influenced by the fact that I did not grow up in a household with slaves, like members of Dahra's slave-owning class who already in their youth acquire a casual approach to the ownership of human beings. Perhaps, it is that even with my years in Dahra, the pleasure of interaction with slaves may have lost some of its novelty, but hardly any of its thrills. Perhaps, I am unusually susceptible to the enjoyment derived from having all the power on my side.
Having surrounded myself almost exclusively with slaves on my estates, I am different from most affluent Dahrans whose private lives tend to be much less focused on their slaves, and much more focused on their acquaintances, family members and friends.
Nor can my slaves be regarded as anything other than ordinary sexual beings in extraordinary surroundings. Many are bisexual who have found a new happiness of a sort with, in the main, a regular and unchanging male buddy in a sexual relationship which in their previous lives they would not have considered due to lack of opportunity or the frowns of society or their own natural culturally imposed inhibitions.
A number of my slaves do change partners regularly, but they are a minority. There is the general belief held among slaves that `it's better the devil you know that the one you don't' as the proverb suggests.
The vast majority of my slaves are heterosexuals who find companionship and sexual release with their chosen companion and buddy. Sexual happiness and fulfilment as would correspond to their innate and congenital preferences are unattainable for them.
When a slave is assigned to be my bed companion for the night, unless he is one of my requested regulars such as Ross Wells or Abdul ben-Azri, I normally do not expect to see him again for some time. So I smiled to myself when I saw Dmitri Solidiuk, the tall splendidly built former Russian tour bus driver assigned to me within a short number of weeks. I knew from my previous experience with him that he had been exercising with great effort to build up his physique, but what continued to cause me to smile was his trademark - his perfectly combed pubes.
`Dmitri, at rest.'
The slave at gone to his `display' position when I had entered my bedroom suite, and now relaxed with his wrist clasped behind his back.
`I must ask Ben why he has assigned you again so soon to be my companion for the night. What favours have you been doing to get back here so soon?'
When Dmitri blushed, I knew I had hit home. I cocked an eyebrow at him.
`Nothing for your secretary, Master, other than to assure him that I was very good in bed and had pleased you, I believe, the last time I was here. But I have been teaching the back-stroke during swimming to Gianni, his assistant.'
`And I'll bet you have told Ben how well Gianni is doing on more than one occasion.'
`Yes, Master,' the slave replied again blushing.
My bedroom attendants, Terry and James, were relieving me of the day's clothes, not even deigning to give a single look to a mere transitory slave in the bedroom suite.
`Terry, get me that camel-cane beside the dresser.'
Terry Peoples' eyes widened, but he immediately moved over to the large amphora beside the dresser where two camel-canes are left for any interesting sex-game which might develop in the bedroom.
Pointing to the large leather table to the side of the room with its adjustable flaps, I said to Dmitri Soliduk `Kneel up on that table, head and shoulders on the table, knees together, and put that backside of yours up in the air.'
`Yes, Master,' Dmitri said and with two paces was over to the table and up on it as instructed.
I took the camel-cane from Terry Peoples and walked over to the table. The perfectly rounded buttocks of the slave were warm under the touch of the palm of my hand. I felt him tremble. Most assuredly, this was not the way he had imagined his night would start.
`Count each stroke.'
`Yes, Master.'
I delivered six evenly spaced strokes of the cane on the slave's rump, leaving six rising weals across both buttocks. They were not professional strokes. I needed the slave to be active that night. He counted off evenly, albeit with the odd gasp.
`Down.'
The slave got down from the table and stood `at display' as he should have after punishment.
`Dmitri, I admire your initiative to get back into my bed, but I do not like the way you use people. Help Gianni to learn to swim but accept no favours for it.'
The slave nodded.
`Yes, Master, but at least tonight, let me pleasure you because you are my one and true Master.' There was not an inflection of resentment at the punishment he had received like the good and well-trained slave he was.
I had to smile and relent in my annoyance at such persistence. I pointed to the bed and Dmitri bounced across to it, red weals flashing in the evening light. I left him there while I took a leisurely shower and wash with Terry and James, who for some reason thought the whole situation was amusing as they never stopped smiling throughout the ablutions.
Punished or not, Dmitri that night was a delight and his attention to sexual detail had to be marvelled at and admired.
It is always advisable not to bark if you have a watchdog. It confuses all and sundry, to say nothing of the poor beast whose best function you are usurping. What I really mean to say is that when amateurs attempt a professional job, the results are at the best of times not too encouraging. So the best advice is leave professional work to the professionals. In this sense, I prefer to stand back and watch those entrusted with their task to do that task untrammelled in their work.
This thought struck me as I was looking at one particular Swede just hanging from the `swing bars' as we call them. When used correctly after some practice, the slaves can use the swing bars individually and swing chimpanzee-like from the start to the end point. Their purpose is to strengthen the upper body and the muscles of the arms and shoulders.
The particular slave at whom I was now looking had dropped a number of times to the sand, failing to complete the series of swings. Most certainly, it does require a degree of fitness and of upper arm strength. I have done it myself, though admittedly not with any great dexterity or speed.
The compound Supervisor was clearly not pleased at the slave's lack of progress, because very quietly, he had told the slave simply to jump up, grab the bar and hang on. Then the Supervisor had walked over to the central table and drawers where various training aids are left and stored.
The Supervisor rummaged for something among the assortment of aids on the table and returned with two alligator clips. I know the type. One of them had snapped shut on one of my fingers at the Khan supermarket emporium when I was buying them, and I can assure you they have a nasty bite to their serrated alligator teeth.
The slave was still hanging on for dear life onto the swing bar, when the training Supervisor returned, squeezed some of the slave's chest flesh around the nipple into a little mountain and let the alligator clip snap on. The slave struggled to maintain a grip and again managed to keep his grip on the bar when the second clip was also attached to the other pectoral muscle and its tender aureole.
I could see the slave now perspiring and gasping for air. The Supervisor said something low to the slave and going behind the slave, slightly supported the slave at waist level and the slave began to move hand over hand down the swing bar.
I saw the purpose of the waist lift. From a standstill position with the pain of the clips going up through the chest and arms, the slave would have been hard-pressed to move at all, but once put into motion was able to proceed down the swing bars, a poor gibbonesque imitation of a one of a rainforest's funnier, more charming and endearing inhabitants.
At the end of the swing bars, the slave was allowed drop to the sand, rest for fifteen seconds, and was then hoisted back onto the bars. I lost interest after the slave had done this half-a dozen times, and I went over to a flogging frame where another Swede was about to receive what turned out to be ten strokes with a four foot camel-cane, after which he quite literally sped five times around the wall of the compound as his training Supervisor stood there with a stopwatch in hand.
While training is in full progress as is the rule, no one even acknowledges my presence as Master. I could have been invisible as far as the training in hand in the compound was concerned, a ghost, a fly on the wall, an observing spider in an ignored corner web.
End of Chapter 5
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