Dahran

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the eighth 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 8 -- The military butcher

Life is like a lamp flame; it needs a little oil now and then.

(Kashmiri proverb)

Gianni Centini came into the study to place a number of files about six inches high on the desk beside my left elbow. It was as if he had been waiting in the wings for the precise moment for me to finish with Greg Logan, my eyes and ears at opal mine.

As assistant to my secretary, Ben Trant, Gianni looks after correspondence and filing of which there seems always to be more and more each week, and never less and less. He knelt down on the marble floor beside my chair and placed his hands behind his back in the `waiting' position. He usually handles the final stage of the accounts, those of the various Heads of Household whose procurement requirements were a weekly and ongoing issue.

I rested my hand on Gianni's shoulder as I continued my reading at the desk, letting my thumb stroke his neck which felt warm under my touch. He seemed to draw closer to me and out of the corner of my eye I saw the flickering of a smile on his face. As one of the few overtly gay persons at the Palaces, he was a good looking Italian slave whose quietness was only matched by the accuracy of his work. His immediate superior, Ben himself, was the first one ever at my Palaces to say that he was gay. It was one of those things of gaydar that Ben and he had connected.

I let my hand slide down on his smooth chest and felt firmness of his right nipple, tweaked it, and was rewarded with an audible sigh. The slave's body was now definitely touching my thigh. I sighed. Too much of a good thing can be bad for you and I closed what I was reading and let my eye fall on my Palace homework of the day.

`I suppose this has to be done today, Gianni.'

`Yes, Master. Best to do it today and to sleep soundly tonight knowing that it is done,' he said with a shy smile looking up at me. I think that Gianni is really terrified of me for some reason and that he conceals his terror with smiles.

I started to sign the first of some ten or so cheques of the day and handed each one duly signed and its covering documentation back to Gianni. This was followed by some batches of letters and invitation acceptances. It was all over and done with in less than fifteen minutes.

I looked at Gianni still on his knees beside me as he sorted the last of the documents, and thought that frequently we never appreciate what is right on our own doorstep.

`Gianni.'

`Yes, Master.'

`Lie up on the desk. On your back,' I said rising from my chair and unbuttoning my flies.

Unhesitatingly, the slave rose from his knees in one fluid movement, showing no sign of having been inconvenienced by being on his knees on the marble floor for near on twenty minutes, and put his buttocks on the edge of the desk and lay back.

`Lift your legs over your head.'

The slave complied holding on to his ankles, the light of evening shining on his gloriously tanned smooth and hairless skin. His perfect skin from clean and healthy living at the Palace belied his thirty two years and I reflected on how well he had worked for the past years under Ben Trant four years his junior, but the more dominant slave in the partnership union. Already Gianni's penis was beginning to lengthen as it was appraised by his own body itself of impending sex.

I touched Gianni's most intimate of sexual spots and found that it was moist. I smelt the tip of my finger and found that it was Aloe sap. I would have been disappointed were my slave to have come to me without being ready at the same time to pleasure my needs.

My cock was hard, and I placed its tip at the puckered entrance to Gianni's anus and with one firm push inserted it to the hilt. I brought forward his legs and let them rest on my shoulders. His hands sought out the edge of the desk to give himself that extra leverage and grasp. I felt the muscles of his anus tighten and relax. He had clearly taken Frank Kovac's courses in sex techniques or alternatively had some good ones of his own; but from the manner of the technique I guessed it was Frank's. Gianni was breathing deeply. His eyes were fixed on mine, intent on my pleasure. There was the slightest scent of perspiration rising from his genitals, mingled with that of aloe.

It was not to be a long fuck as I could already feel my juices rising. I put my hands at the back of Gianni's neck and pulled him forward toward me, so that only his buttocks were now on the edge of the desk and the full pressure of the tightness of his asshole was on my cock. The point of no-return arrived and I was over the precipice.

`I am not going to bring you off. I leave that to Ben this evening.'

`Thank you, Master.'

`Now clean me up with your mouth.'

The slave was on his knees again in a trice and his tongue washed my glans and shaft until it was perfectly clean of my cum and the aloe sap with which Gianni had so liberally anointed his own chute.

`Do you always come lubricated when you come to meet me?'

`Yes, Master, always. I never know when I will have the honour to serve your needs.'

`What does Ben say to this?'

`Say, Master? Nothing. He inspects me every morning to ensure that I am adequately lubricated, and then I check him the same.'

`Do you now?'

That was a thought worth remembering!

It was one of my lawyer based in the Cayman Islands, Josh Green's, agencies working in Eastern Europe that found the link or rather the lack of it in the case of Gjon Vlorju, this mercenary whose photo had so frightened one of the kitchen staff. The mercenary's details on my file, under the false name, had started just two years previously. Prior to that there had been no one of the name who matched any of the facts, but once Josh Green had Gjon Vlorju's true name, it was then another matter. His had stopped upon his disappearance from the face of the earth two years previously -- matching precisely the creation of his new identity.

A search of various international fingerprint databases, which cost a considerable amount of money, produced the facts that he had been a captain in one of the many militias during a particular bloody time on the border of Albania and Macedonia and who had been responsible for two particularly bloody massacres, had led the rape and murder of entire adult and children segments of local populations. He had then disappeared when his militia group was cornered by UN and international forces.

When I read subsequently the report my blood ran cold and I did not want to believe what I was reading until I saw a blurred photograph of the man. Despite the quality of the photo, there was no denying that it was the slave, now in my ownership, who now worked in the opal mine.

I have always said that what a slave did prior to arrival in my possession was history as far as I was concerned and not a factor in his treatment, but my half-gelding of forty two mercenary slaves and various prisoner slaves had punctured that particular philosophy. Now the presence of a war criminal of the worst sort at the opal mine meant I had to take another stance.

I decided to myself that no one at the Palaces apart from Greg Logan and Ben Trant, my secretary, would know of these facts. Secondly, I gave an instruction to Zabian al-Kibbe, the General Manager, via Greg who was going back to the mine inside two days, ordering that Gjon Vlorju should never leave the opal mine, not now, now in five years' time, not ever; that he was never to be relieved of his shackles and lastly, on the vet's next visit he was to lose his other ball. He would never rape another human being.

I was sitting under one of the pergolas in the garden when Marko, whom I had summoned, arrived. I patted the wooden seat beside me and this quiet slave from the kitchens sat down on its very edge with his hands on his knees, as if to be able to spring off it at a moment's notice.

I put my arm around his waist and pulled him back on it and closer to me. His skin was warm and as I pulled him even closer, Marko smelled of cinnamon.

`You smell of spices, Marko.'

He held up his hands and smelt them, and with one of his beatific smiles, said, `Yes, Master. I was making a new ice-cream for you. Now, it won't be a surprise.'

I smiled at one of my favourite slaves with his short dark hair and fine lustrously black eyebrows.

`You got a bad fright a while back, Marko.'

He looked at me and I could feel the shiver that went through his body. He just nodded his head at me.

`You saw somebody from your past.'

Again a shiver up against my body and my arm around his waist.

`Gjon Vlorju will never trouble you again. He will never hurt you or anyone else again. Do you understand?'

Marko nodded. His dark eyes fathomless as they wanted to believe my words. I repeated myself.

`He will never hurt you or anyone else again.'

Marko slipped an arm around my waist and laid his head on my chest.

He was very bad, Master. I saw him kill people and he used to laugh as he did it. He was called the butcher'.'

`The days when he could do that are over. You don't need to fear him any more, Marko.'

`Thank you, Master.'

This was one of the few times where I had actually not ignored the slave's past. As far as I was concerned, Gjon Vlorju would live out the rest of his days at the opal mine, never knowing precisely why he was always being kept there, never knowing why he would never leave it, never knowing why he was permanently in shackles, never knowing why he had been fully castrated.

Was I being vindictive? Not at all, I thought to myself. Gjon Vlorju's present state and predicament had been written in the blood of his own actions. I had just sealed off of all possible further damage to others and to myself. His past had caught up with him through the eyes of an ice-cream maker.

That particular day on which I had spoken with Marko, Flavio, my chef, had worked his usual magic and had given us a dinner menu starting with a cold soupe de tous les légumes du potager, deliciously cool, on what was a warm November evening, and chosen from all the farms' vegetables of the day, followed by poulet au vinaigre de vin, a light casserole of chicken in white wine vinegar, and finishing with a iced selection including Marko's latest cinnamon flavoured ice-cream.

This was also the first of the trial meals where I had the serving slaves in the Palace wear a new table uniform of a Greek style white short-sleeved chiton or tunic which hung down to above the knees and was cinched at the waist by a corded gold braid.

Bob Conrad, my maître d' made a point of having the six slaves who were to be in attendance at the dinner lined up for my inspection half-an-hour before the arrival of the guests who were the medical staff, Gus Jennings, the General Manager of my Aloe cream company, a Spaniard, Felipe Argüelles who had built some tennis courts for me and who was now based in Dahra.

The slaves' only adornment was the gold necklace which each would have received thirty days after coming out of training or into my ownership.

I looked at Bob and saw how he was his usual worried self, even though he had overseen many a formal dinner for me with my friends and neighbours.

Afterwards, it was Felipe who said, `I'm impressed, Sir Jonathan. It's all very understated.'

`Understated? What?'

`Your home, the lunch, your slaves. There is nothing extrovert or flamboyant about it. Some businessmen here in Dahra who are not from the Sheikdom have rather colourful homes, even exotic might I say. I have seen these homes when installing their tennis courts. Your home is simple, functional and beautiful. The dinner was simplicity itself, and simplicity is difficult to achieve. I noticed that you did not give a single instruction to your slaves during the entire lunch.'

I smiled.

Bob was standing slightly to my left, in my line of vision and looking at the slave, I said `Bob, bring the tea and coffee.'

Turning to my guest, I quipped `wrong, Felipe, I have now given one instruction.'

`You know what I mean, Jonathan.'

We had finished our after-dinner tea and coffee and I invited my two guests to visit the gardens of the Palace where we spent about half-an hour wandering through the paths of the cactus gardens and then the water-gardens.

Whatever the future of other business ventures in Dahra, one thing was certain that operations such as my aloe cream was a winner, using locally grown materials, free water, free labour and a most favourable tax régime. Others would have to find their own niches in the Dahran marketplace, using the `living' bricks and mortar available locally.

My Overseers and Supervisors have their jobs to do and get on with their jobs. I do my level best not to interfere, first because it is annoying to have anyone interfere if you are doing a good job; secondly, it makes the Overseer or Supervisor less confident, trying to second-guess what I, the Master, might want, and thirdly, it looks bad in front of the slaves, that your are undermining the authority and instructions of your own Supervisors or, worse, of your own Overseers or Heads of function.

In a negative sense, my non-interference in the duties of my Overseers and slaves is like the oil of life which has to be replenished frequently to be effective, and as any mechanic will tell you, a drop of oil can make all the difference in the running of a well-functioning machine. My Palaces were just that, a well-functioning home with me as their Master.

Normally, Faisal my driver drops off any orders around the capital city that the Overseers of the Palaces need and he dovetails them with the Bank's own deliveries. As I was leaving for the Bank one morning, I saw Ben, my secretary, give Faisal the usual folder with what would be his messages for that day.

Just two orders, Boss,' Ben said seeing me look at the handover. Bob needs some supplies and Flavio is stocking up on the month's supplies of slave biscuits.'

`At the House of Khan?'

`For the biscuits, yes, Boss.'

`Give me the House of Khan order, Faisal, and you can drop me off there in the afternoon. There were some new slave training items in their new catalogue I want to look at.'

While much of Dahra closes from twelve to three due to the midday heat, the House of Khan does not and so after a quick lunch, I had Faisal drop me off at their showrooms. Its sheer size and air-conditioning make it quite cool to walk the aisles, particularly at those hours when local Dahrans avoid the outside heat. I have always felt that it was a case, as the song suggests, that only `mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun' and, as far as shopping at the House of Khan was concerned, it was one of the locations where this paid off.

Apart from the most extensive range of slave accessories in Dahra, the House of Khan also boasts a wide range of poolside accoutrements from sun-beds to lilos and also more recently in its catalogue, a range of very good garden furniture. It was this I had come to see in particular.

I had quickly dismissed a PSA -- a personal shopping assistant - with his handheld wireless pad for the immediate recording of purchases. I was not going to be intimidated by any such practice and I headed to the garden section.

The catalogue had not been wrong. There was a splendid display of the best in European and American garden furniture in all types of material. I had been looking at a type of outdoor table and chairs which I thought might do the Lemon Palace veranda instead of the ageing furniture there at present, and murmured `Very nice' to myself as I let my fingers trail over one particular suite of table and chairs.

`Very nice indeed,' this voice echoed at my elbow and I actually gave a jump at discovering another salesman of the House beside me. I had not heard him approach and he had given me a start.

Very nice, sir, this suite and the one over there,' he continued before I could say anything. The salesman was dressed in a yellow shirt, fawn slacks and sandals, and the word Kent' was on a tag on his shirt. He certainly did not look Dahran or Pakistani. This was a new departure for the House where the PSAs are local employees or members of the owner's family, but who are accompanied by slaves whose turnover is legendary as they `model' the slave-training items on display that any prospective purchaser wants. The turnover is caused by the fact I was told, that many a purchaser tests ball-weights to the maximum, thumbscrews to point of breaking bones and neck restraints to near asphyxiation levels. Young and dumb slaves are soon replaced at their purchase price or less.

Kent was a pleasant change. I had moved on to some small marquees, much as would be placed attached to buildings to extend an existing room with French double doors and so give extra space into a garden.

The salesman was commenting on the material and whatever way he said something, I heard Bob Conrad's accent in his words.

`You're Canadian,' I said.

`Yes, sir, and you are British. English, I would say from the West Counties.'

With a smile, I nodded at the accuracy of his precision location.

`School in the West Counties, but a long time out of England.'

`Well, sir, you have not lost your accent one bit. And do you find yourself now at home in Dahra, sir?'

`I suppose I do, Kent. I'm with a bank here in the financial services centre and I supposed quite settled.'

Then the salesman surprised me with his next question, `Have you ever thought of solving your home help the Dahran way, sir?'

`How is that?'

`Buying a slave, sir. I notice that you are not married,' and he held out his hand with the ring finger extended. I was not wearing a ring and this was what he was referring to.

`A slave? Why would I want a slave, Kent?' I said, slightly amused at the way the conversation was going.

`Once bought, sir, a slave requires no pay, only board and lodging. It can be very economical in Dahra. And there are other advantages,' he said and paused.

`Other advantages?'

`At night, sir, when a slave would be available to his owner.'

I looked at the salesman. I looked at his tag. Something was not quite right here.

`Pull up the right leg of your trousers,' I ordered rather abruptly.

The salesman looked taken aback and did as he was told to. On his ankle was a slave bracelet! I had been talking all the time to a slave, or more correctly, the slave had been talking to me.

`You know about slaves, sir?' he said uncertainly.

`Yes, I do, Kent. Am I not in the principal slave emporium of the country? And what was that conversation all about, because it was not about the sale of garden furniture?'

`Sir, please don't be annoyed. You didn't look sunburned, and I thought that you might have just arrived in Dahra, particularly since you were looking at the garden furniture.'

The penny dropped.

`You were trying to sell yourself, is that it?'

`Yes, sir, but please don't tell Mr. Khan. He will have me beaten again.'

`Again?'

`Across the backs of my legs, sir, that's why I am wearing a uniform. He didn't realise that my skin bruises very easily.'

`You're from Toronto?'

The slave-salesman looked shocked.

`From Oshawa, Ontario, sir. It's beside Toronto. How did you know?'

`You speak like someone I know. Actually you are like someone I know with all your questions. Have you never heard that slaves don't speak until spoken to in Dahra?'

`I have been told that, sir, but I am only here a month and I need to get away from Mr. Khan.'

`Why?'

`I have to sell a quota every day, and every day I don't I am beaten. It's as simple as that.'

`So you targeted me?'

`Not just you, sir. A number of other Westerners.'

`None of whom took you up on your offer?'

`No, sir. Three just laughed and walked away. Another just looked at me and turned his back. I have only approached men, sir,' and I noticed that he let that phrase sit there.

`Are you trying to tell me something?'

`I do not think I would be comfortable, sir, with a woman owner. I'm gay.'

I looked at him as he looked at me. There was no shyness or coyness in his gaze at me.

'Comfortable, Kent? You are a slave. How does your comfort come into the equation?'

'Not at all, sir. I am sorry. I just wanted you to know what you are being offered.'

`How long are you here at the House of Khan?'

`A month, I think, sir.'

`Give me your hand.'

He reached out his hand. I noticed that his finger were quite long. I took second joint of his thumb between my fingers and squeezed. He almost collapsed before me. Clearly he had been used to test the thumbscrews and by the level of his reaction, it must have been frequently over the previous month.

`How did you get here?'

`To Dahra, sir?'

I nodded.

`I don't really know. I was invited to a party. I had a couple of drinks and then I woke up in a container unable to move or talk. The rest is a blur.'

I looked at him and wondered.

`Do you know how to assemble these marquees? Are they easy to put up and take down?'

Yes, sir. Quite easy once you get the knack of it,' and in the same breath, he continued, Sir, if you bought me I would serve you very well, any way you wanted. I promise you, sir.'

`What did you do in Canada?'

`I taught music, sir.'

`How old are you?'

`I am twenty nine, sir, but everyone says I look younger.'

I looked at him. I would have said thirty.

`Are you clean?'

`Yes, sir. Totally. I had a check-up two months ago and all was clear. I have also been tested here, I think. I'm not sure what the tests were for. I have always been very careful. I am good in bed, sir.'

`You must want to get away from the House of Khan something awful.'

`Sir, you have no idea.'

`Even to the point of lying, of exaggerating the truth.'

`I have told you the truth, sir, without exaggeration.'

We had come up to some garden furniture which included a swing with padded cushions. I sat down on it and indicated a stop for the slave-salesman to sit down.

`I don't need a musician, Kent. Sorry on that score.'

`Sir, I can do anything you want me to do. I can look after your apartment; drive your car; do your shopping. Am I right, sir, that you are not married?'

`I am not married.'

Kent smiled at his previous astute observation and calculation.

`I do have someone to cook and clean and drive for me, even to share my bed.'

`Sir, I will do anything you want me to do. I believe I could serve you very well in anything you asked me to do.'

`You have never thought of going to the Canadian embassy?'

`Sir, the embassies here must know about slavery in Dahra. I was also shown a DVD of what would happen to me, if I ever tried to escape or even tried to gain access to the embassy.'

For all the world, I was a customer lazily swinging to and fro on a canopied garden swing, the salesman beside me giving me the finer details of the product.

`Do you speak Arabic?'

`Only twenty or so phrases, sir. Everyone speaks English here in the emporium.'

`Well, at least, you can take my order for that set of table and chairs over there, and three of these things we are swinging on. Why are there no PSAs out this section?'

`Just a new approach on the sale of garden furniture, sir.'

`I'll say, and buy yourself a willing salesman while you're at it. I hope you find someone to buy you, if you are that unhappy here.'

`Thank you, sir, for listening to me and for your order -- it's my quota for about two days. If you hear of someone who wants a willing servant, please, sir, don't forget me.'

`You seemed resigned to living out the rest of your life in Dahra.'

`Sir, there is no escape. You should have seen the beheading on that DVD,' and the unhappy slave-salesman shuddered.

Near the exit, as I approached the suite of sofas where customers seat themselves while the details of the final order are taken and calculated or if the order is small, where it is being prepared, Shariff Khan the owner himself, having spotted me, came bustling out of one of the offices, and made a bee-line over.

`Sir Jonathan, what a surprise! What a pleasure!' he said in English.

I switched to Arabic and said, `Shariff, the pleasure is all mine. Here is a written order for some slave biscuits and other items needed at the Palace. Your salesman here has just sold me a set of garden table and chairs and some swings. Although he is dressed as salesman, I think he is a slave. Am I correct?'

`Yes, indeed, Sir Jonathan, a Canadian. An excellent salesman who merely has to be reminded of his duty with a good whipping every second day.'

`Do you still sell off your modelling slaves when they become damaged?'

`Yes, indeed, every six weeks or so.'

I think your salesman is damaged' and I waggled my thumbs. However, he pleases me. What did you pay for him?'

I saw the gleam in Shariff's eyes who loves nothing better than a good bout of bargaining.

`Remember, Shariff, I do enough business with both slave centres to be able to find out his price with a simple phone call.'

`Ah, Sir Jonathan, twenty seven thousand euro. He even has a college degree in music or some such thing. Imagine more education than I, and look at me with a thriving business, and he a slave.'

`And with the damage done to him, what price? Twenty two?'

`Sir Jonathan, please! Twenty six!'

`Twenty three.'

`Twenty five.'

`Shariff, let us agree on twenty four and I will take two sets of tables and chairs and five of those garden swings.'

Shariff roared laughing. `Sir Jonathan, a bargain you have. And I am at the loss of three thousand euro on my purchase.'

I gave him a look of disbelief.

`Shariff, have the second of the sets of table and chairs and one of the garden swings sent to my nephew, Jack Tuttle and his wife Fiona at the Wisteria Palace. And as for your salesman, have him ready and waiting within the hour and I shall collect him at the door at four o'clock on my way back to the Lemon Palace. Now tell me, what do I owe you overall,' I said taking out my chequebook.

Shariff snapped his fingers at his nephew who was to one side and whom I recognised from previous visits. Something flowed in Urdu and while the invoice amount was being calculated, Shariff offered me something to drink, which I politely declined.

The invoice for the written order, my present purchase and the salesman-slave was in my hand in a trice. I wrote out a cheque and handed it to Shariff, who bowed and murmured `Always a pleasure, Sir Jonathan, always a pleasure,' as he moved off with it.

The salesman-slave was still standing beside the sofas where we were sitting. I got up and looked him in the eye.

`You had better be even better than you claim to be, Kent.'

He looked shocked.

`You have bought me, sir?' he said half-unbelieving.

I nodded.

Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you,' he said, I will serve you any way you want, sir.'

I will collect you at the front door at four oclock. See that you are ready.'

It had not occurred to me to ask my new slave what type of music he taught in Ontario. So, it was with some surprise as we drove back home to the Palace that I learned that he was a classical pianist, had played with a number of groups around the province and had actually come third on two occasions in piano competitions in the States.

`So, what you are saying is that you are good, but not that good.'

`Sir, I have talent. What I lack is both genius and the will to be a first class pianist. I am an excellent second class musician.'

The slave was sitting at my feet in the Rolls as Faisal drove us back still dressed in the short-sleeved shirt and trousers of the emporium.

`Take off those clothes. You are my slave now.'

`Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. '

He shuffled round on the floor of the Rolls and took off his trouser and pulled his shirt off over his head, and then knelt on the floor with his arms `at display'. His body was devoid of hair except for a fair coloured bush in his arm pit and above a rather nice long thin penis with a finely shaped crown. For some strange reason, he appeared more relaxed naked than in the clothes of the House of Khan as if they somehow were a still existing chain to his previous owner.

I was leafing through his tan folder which Shariff Khan had given me.

`What sort of a name is Kialka?'

`It's actually from the Polish-Lithuanian border, sir. My parents were Polish but emigrated to Canada. My first name is actually Karol, but everyone calls me Kent, sir.'

Looking at him kneeling in front of me, I got the impression of a slave who in life would just want to please people, or in his specific case, his owner. He had cut the cloth of his ambitions to the match the cotton of survival. Yes, that was it. He was a survivor.

So when you say classical pianist' what do you mean.'

`I play, I mean, sir, I used play all the major classical composers, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart.'

`And what do you think you are going to play for me?'

His eyes dropped to my crotch, stayed there long enough for me to get the message, and then he raised them again.

`Sir, I will do anything you ask me to do, day or night. You will not have to ask me twice. I'll do anything you want around your house, sir. I am just so grateful to be away from that place. You have no idea how cruelly they treat the slaves there, sir. I will never run away, sir.'

`We'll see. I think you protest too much.'

`Sir, if I do it is out of gratitude at your buying me. But I do not exaggerate anything else.'

`I'll put you to work in my gardens, I think, once I get you checked out.'

`Thank you, sir. Thank you.'

End of Chapter 8

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