The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor
This is the eleventh 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 11 -- The scattered brothers
One hand cannot clap
(Arabian proverb)
The morning following Amin al-Siddih's departure, Vitali Belov stood before me decked out in his skimpy khaki shorts who because of his wolfish rangy features always appeared slightly taller than his just under six foot frame. I find him an extraordinarily gifted Supervisor and managerial in his handling of men, although he had never been more than a conscript and private in the Russian army before being lifted. Ross Wells has found him to be the most gifted of lovers.
Now he stood before me awaiting my instructions. The smooth tanned skin radiated health. Vitali was one of my first slaves, gifted to me by the al-Akhri brothers, one of whose finest attributes, apart from his physique and original anal virginity, I had discovered lay in his hands in his ability to give the most perfect of massages. He now split his time between acting as assistant sex trainer with Frank Kovacs and as a trainer with his fellow Russian, Ivan Sorovich, in the fourth training compound.
I looked at Vitali standing before me `at rest', awaiting my command to start giving his weekly report on the training of some of the Swedes and on my fellow Englishman Nigel Broaders, one of the very few slaves whom I had ever personally ordered lifted.
`Take off those pants,' I ordered.
Before I could draw breath, the pants had been shucked down and were on the floor, and Vitali was stepping out of them.
`Come over here.'
The slave trainer drew close. I held out my left hand, the palm cupped, and Vitali came closer and rested his warm and soft hanging balls in the palm of my hand, the tip of his uncut cock just touching the heel of my hand. I like having the Supervisors feel the warmth of my hands on their bodies. It does not imply a mauling in any way, but with gentle touches and caresses to their most intimate parts and areas, I show them that I have remembered where they like to be touched and sexually aroused.
Vitali's balls were warm and full, soft and pink for all the suntan that they might have taken over the summer. Each was the size of a large plum or small egg, and I weighed their weight in my hand as I let two of my fingers stroke the back of the balls and the start of the perineum, just as I know he likes it.
His cock started to raise its head and to firm up its length. The tips of my fingers wandered a little further back.
`Put your foot on the chair,' I instructed and Vitali placed the ball of his left foot on the chair beside me. This opened up the full space under his torso, and I let his balls loose as my fingers proceeded back to his tight back passage. No matter what time I have had Vitali in my bed, his back passage has always felt tight. It is one of its natural characteristics. Its entrance was damp and lubricated. I brought out my finger and brought it to my nose.
Aloe cream!
`Were you expecting something to happen?'
`Maybe yes, Boss, maybe no. But it is better to be prepared for a Master. That is what I teach,' he said with a smile.
I reciprocated with a smile as well, and let my finger resume their peregrinations under his inguinal area and back to his anus.
Vitali was leaking copious amounts of precum and there was a strand of it right down to his knees. When he first came into my possession he was a premature ejaculator; whose cock went from flaccid to horizontal to the floor to perpendicular up against his body in no time flat, followed by a premmie ejaculation. Now with patience, and with Frank Kovac's expert tuition, he had overcome that problem, but had never been able to stop the flow of precum when he was excited. And excited, that indeed he was now!
I let my middle finger slip into him and it entered smoothly. He was fully and properly lubricated. My slightly curved finger found his prostate and he went reflexively on his tippy-toes and let out a little gasp at the frottage it had caused.
With a slow caressing movement, I let my finger gently massage his prostate gland.
Vitali had his eyes half-closed and murmured `Ah, Master,' as his penis now began to swell with visibly growing tumescence.
`Tell me, Vitali, is your report a long one or a short one?'
`A long one, Boss.'
I eased up on the pressure of my middle finger, `Well, you had better begin then, from the very beginning.'
`Yes, Boss,' and I started to get a general report on the Swedes who were still in his compound and on Nigel Broaders, in particular.
For all of fifteen minutes, Vitali made his report and I kept moving him closer and closer to the edge of climax, then relaxing the pressure of my massage, and starting all over again. He knew from past experience that I would not bring him over the edge, and he for his part trusted me enough to know if I was pushing him there too far or to fast.
I felt that Vitali was not happy with Olaf, the Swedish slave.
`He is holding something back, Master. He is not fully committed to receiving his training and I am not going to recommend that he go to the next compound.'
That recommendation, when made by a trainer, I had never overruled. I trusted each trainer's judgement.
`You know, Boss, that I rarely use a camel-cane on a trainee. But I regret to say that I had to once on Olaf.'
`Regret, Vitali? Regret? It is your right if you so wish.'
`Yes, Master, my right given to me by you. But regret all the same that I had not convinced the slave clearly enough as to where his duty of service lay towards Master Gustav. I believe there might be attitude problems with Björn too. Being Master Gustav's former lover is one thing. Being trained as his sex slave, accepting that Master Gustav has the absolute power to decide what happens, is somewhat different,'
`And the other slave.'
`I cannot, just cannot, recommend that Nigel Broaders move either to another compound either. This, Master, is the first time that two slaves have stayed back with me at the same time. I feel that I have failed you.'
I was so surprised at the strength of feeling being expressed by Vitali that I actually stopped massaging his prostate for some seconds.
With my right hand, I pulled his head down to mine, and when his lips were level with mine, I kissed him gently on the lips.
`Vitali Belov, you have never ever failed me and you have not failed me on this occasion.'
I kissed him again, but this time deeply. My middle finger had now been joined by my index finger, and as I kissed Vitali and my tongue sought the back of his throat, he groaned and I felt his penis jerk on my arm as stream after stream of semen ejaculated over my shirt.
We stopped kissing.
`Anything more to report?' I whispered.
`A great kiss, Master.'
`Only the kiss?'
`And a great everything else, Master. I've also ruined your shirt.'
`So you have. Come upstairs and take a shower with me, and then I'll change. But remember, Vitali, in the fourth compound, you and Ivan Sorovich are the ones in charge. What you say goes with me. What are you going to do with Björn, Olaf and Nigel for the next week?'
`Hand them over to Ivan and stand back and watch.'
`So, it will be Ivan reporting next week?'
`Yes, Boss, and I'll warn him well in advance' and he put up two fingers in the air.
Had I not known my Vitali better and loved him even more so, I could have been forgiven for mistaking his gesture as a two-fingered salute.
I grinned at his trusting impudence and he grinned back at me.
I had just finished with Vitali when Ben Trant, my secretary, came in with a special delivery. Usually such deliveries were reports from Josh Green in Grand Cayman Island, and indeed such was the couriered delivery here.
Normally, my requests to Josh Green are about individual persons. My specific request in this instance was about a family in West Virginia -- the Peoples family, whose sons Terry and Luke were now my slaves.
The report did not make for pleasant reading. The family was little more than hill-billy with the father doing nothing much on twenty acres of rough farm land of mixed grazing. No improvements had ever been made to the farm that the investigator could find out. The mother never ever left the farm and groceries were brought back by the husband after a weekly visit to town.
They were not registered to vote and there was no indication of any taxes having been paid in the previous five years. When the investigator had asked why they had not been prosecuted for the non-payment of even the local taxes, the reply was that the family was `dirt poor and not worth the hassle'.
There was no indication of alcohol or substance abuse but the father was reputed to have a moonshine still somewhere in the woods near his property which accounted for the family's ability to pay its small bills and weekly purchases.
They did not even have a savings account at the local Bank, though were know to cash the odd cheque there as they were known to the vice-president who was hooked on the taste of West Virginian finest `shine.
There was one son on the farm, Benji, aged around fifteen. `The other five boys just upped and left over the years' in the words of one local source. According to the investigator what was striking about the family was that no one was interested in it. They had no known friends apart from the mailman; no social life; no pastimes or hobbies; no interests outside their own farm.
Benji was enrolled at the local high school and attended only an average of one in three days. When asked why he had not turned up on the other days, the answer invariably was Pa needed me on the farm' and in a poor agricultural area, family farm help was understood and not frowned upon. The school attendance officer merely shrugged his shoulders when asked and said just one more family of very many similar ones in this area'.
It was the mailman who actually gave the investigator his first real break -- `Yes, he knew the family. Hell, he knew all the families he delivered to!'
Pretending to the advance scout for a factory to be built in the area, the investigator had stayed in the nearest town to the Peoples' farmstead and conveniently lunched at the diner where the mailman also lunched after his rounds.
The first day, the investigator merely sat at the counter beside the mailman and let drop the reason why he was in town, `looking at sites, seeing if there are sufficient free workers. You know the drill'.
The mailman nodded wisely and filed away the facts.
The second day, the investigator had a side table taken before the mailman came in, and waved him over to join him.
`You're the man with all the local information that can help me. Let me at least stand you your lunch as we talk.'
The mailman was flattered and sat down to join the investigator. Twice the conversation was brought round to the Peoples family.
`Nice folk by all accounts and hard working, I'm told.'
`Nice folk indeed. Hard life on that farm, especially with all the boys taking off over the years. Nobody really to help out except the youngest kid.'
`What? Did they all go and join the Marines?'
`Not unless the Marines are now taking kids under eighteen without birth certificates. Each of the boys just upped and left. The Pa said that life was too difficult for them perhaps on the farm. But the strange thing is that none of them ever write back to the family. I'd know. I'm the mailman,' he had replied with a chuckle.
It was at this point according to the investigator that mailman let slip that the family would get letters from Galveston, Texas, from time to time. Always one or two a year and always from a firm whose return address was on the envelope - a firm called `Prime Personnel'. The mailman had joked with Ma Peoples on one occasion that was she getting some sort of mail catalogue? That was how he had remembered it. That family was too poor to buy proper groceries let alone stuff from a mail catalogue where credit cards where needed to make the purchases. This was the closing comment on the Peoples family that lunchtime.
By the following day, the investigator had found out through Josh Green's contacts that Prime Personnel in Galveston were an import export company for the recruitment of specialised personnel, especially for working overseas, located in a secluded and well-secured spot on the docks -- the sort of spot where containers could come in and depart as the report noted, `with the minimum of surveillance and maximum of security'.
On the third day, the mailman found his friend again in the diner, again at a side table, and with a bottle of the mailman's favourite beer beside a glass. What the mailman did not see were the two drops of colourless liquid sodium pentothal in the bottom of the glass. The amount would be harmless for him, would make him amenable to suggestion, would loosen his tongue further without suspicion, and the following day leave him with the mother of all hangovers.
When the investigator left the West Virginia town, he had as much local information as he was going to get. His instructions were to proceed to Galveston.
Galveston, Texas, is on an island and, after Ellis Island in New York, it has had the highest number of immigrants pass through it into the United States. Trafficking of people through it was into the United States was not unknown; trafficking of people out of the country was something else again, and known but to a few.
The information that Josh Green had needed to get for me was contained in the very secure premises of Prime Personnel. He got that information the old fashioned way. He bought it from one of the local manager's secretary for fifteen thousand dollars cash in small bills.
It took the investigator all of two weeks to find out who was who in the building where no one was allowed in except by appointment. Using the same technique which according to Josh works time and time again, the investigator shared a lunch table twice with the manager's secretary whom he had discovered had a handicapped child at a local special school.
On the first day, having had a keen listener to her history as a single parent and the trials and tribulations of rearing a beautiful but handicapped boy, she was delighted to accept a second lunch the following day as her lunch partner was so kind to suggest her.
At the second lunch, the investigator had hinted quite openly that for some information from some old files which might be on the computer or hard-copy, he would be able to pay her very handsomely.
`How handsomely, handsome?' has been her quip.
`Four thousand dollars in small bills per file. There are will be three old files. Twelve thousand dollars in all.'
They finally agreed on five thousand per file if she could find them and they agreed to meet at the same luncheon diner a week later. The secretary did not appear in the least concerned that she was about to sell her employer out. The investigator gave her three names and left the rest up to her.
According to the investigator, the only thing which struck the secretary as incongruous about her employer's business was that although the firm was engaged in placing people on contract jobs, particularly overseas, all the interviews were always done elsewhere. When asked about the containers in the separate secured yards, the reply was that the storage area for another associated company which shipped the furniture of those who had been contracted overseas. None of the employers ever went near that area.
The following week the investigator received more information than he had hoped for. The secretary came into the diner at lunchtime, saw the investigator and came and sat down at his table. In the centre of a folded newspaper was a large brown envelope of forty photocopies of the old files on Mattie, Elliot and Jake Peoples, and on a floppy disk their summarised computer information, together with that of their two brothers Terry and Luke.
When the investigator was told this, he asked why Terry's and Luke's information was included.
`No reason really. They merely had the same original home address. So I copied their stuff as well. It did not say where they were going to be employed like other placements. If you don't want the data on the other two, just delete it and shred their sheets.'
The investigator did not comment and merely exchanged newspapers--his containing a brown envelope with seven hundred and fifty twenty dollar bills bound with elastic bands into three bundles.
Being wealthy allows a person to indulge in whims. It pleased me for no greater reason than I could afford to do it, that I did it. I also felt I was a distant detective, an international Sherlock Holmes, a sort of trans-continental eye and a part of Josh's investigation process as he went about discovering fact after fact, as he did the leg-work and I did the overall requesting.
I asked Ahmed al-Atti, the owner of the al-Qatim slave processing centre, if he had ever heard of Prime Personnel in Texas. He had indeed, and dealt four or five times a year with them.
`They normally supply working class American males. Nothing really special. Four or five units at a time.'
Ahmed looked at me and then he continued, `I think that at least two of your present slaves, perhaps not through us, but maybe through al-Qatim, may have come from Prime Personnel. I would have to check our records.'
`Have you ever placed a specific order with them?'
`No, Sir Jonathan, they merely fax us at having items in stock. But there would be no difficulty at all in placing an order with them, if you knew what you wanted.'
`Ahmed, I want you to purchase a slave who has already gone through Prime Personnel: Elliot Peoples.'
Ahmed furrowed his brow and then said `Is he related to that young blond slave you bought here? What? Six months ago?'
`Brothers.'
`Ah, a team of brothers working on your farms.'
`Yes, something like that,' I said uncommittedly.
`Prime Personnel will know to whom they sold him.'
`I know that already if that is of help to you. He was sold to an owner in the United States. I can give you the name and address if it is of any help.'
`Yes, please let me have the details of the name and address. It will speed up matters.'
`What if the owner will not sell?'
`Sir Jonathan, most owners of slaves are not like you. They will sell if the price is right. Then, they will simply purchase a replacement already in the marketplace. Or, if they have special requirements, they will order a fresh replacement. When would you like me to start and what are the price limits?'
`You start now and you be the judge of the price.'
`Sir Jonathan, I shall contact you when the purchase has been made.'
`You are that confident.'
`If the slave is still alive, I am that confident.'
`One further thing, Ahmed. Tell Prime Personnel that when a Benji Peoples comes on the market, that you are interested in his purchase.'
`Another brother? You think that he will be placed on the market?'
`Like yourself, Ahmed, I am that confident.'
Three weeks later Elliot Peoples stood `at display', his twenty two year old body looking lean and compact, with long legs and a solid but not defined muscled frame. He had the trim body of a runner. Naked and frightened in the given circumstances, he looked like any other slave--slightly confused by the new and strange environment.
Ahmed al-Atti had brought me into the private viewing area, where the slave stood on his own. With a wave of his hand, he had indicated his most recent acquisition for me and, with a slight bow as if to say `he's all yours', he left the room, and left me in the company of the young slave.
I walked over to the slave and walked around him on the dais. He had been well-cared for. Closely cropped hair, circumcised, a nicely done periah. No visible sign of body damage. On his hip, the small brand of his former owner's ranch the size of a silver dollar.
I faced the slave and could see the effects of his heart hammering in his breast, a small pulse in the flesh of his upper belly to the left of his sternum.
`At rest.'
If the slave was surprised at being spoken to in English, he did not show it. He had been at the centre for two days according to Ahmed. With my business schedule, I had not been able to visit sooner.
The slave immediately stood `at rest', with his arms lowered and behind his back.
I placed my hand on his chest and could feel his heart pounding at the fear of the unknown.
I saw him looking at me in surprise and then his glance went back to the mid-distance like a well-trained slave.
`Hello, Elliot.'
The slave gulped and replied, `Sir.'
`My name is Jonathan and I am your new owner.'
`Sir,' he repeated, as if absorbing that point of information.
I walked round him again drinking in his beautifully blond...no, he was more fair...physiognomy. He was a fair beauty. His frame and bone structure were very similar to that of his brothers. His hands were clasped at his lower back, one in the palm of the other.
I went over to the assorted chairs at the side of the room and brought one back and set it down in front of the slave and viewing dais. I sat down.
`Sit down,' I said to the slave now towering above on the dais, and I indicated a spot on the edge of the dais.
`Sit down, sir?'
The slave had trebled his vocabulary.
He lowered himself down, his legs over the edge, the soles of his feet firmly set on the floor as if to give him a needed solid surface were he to have to spring into action.
`How are you?'
`I am well, sir,' he said cautiously, the accent quite Texan, with no West Virginian twang, clearly influenced by the phonemes in the voice of his previous owner.
`I expect you may have a number of questions?'
`Questions, sir? I can ask questions?'
`Ask whatever you wish and I will answer.'
`You have bought me, sir?
`Yes.'
I could see the slave digesting that piece of information.
`Where am I, sir? It is hotter here than in Texas.'
`You are in Dahra, in the Middle East.'
`They speak Arabic here, sir?'
`Yes.'
`You are not American, sir?'
`No, I am English.'
`Sir, what are you going to do to me? Please, sir.'
`To you? Very little. You are going to work for me, either at my Palace or on my farms. Hopefully in time, you will do a lot for me.'
I looked at the slave's right ankle and the GPS bracelet was in place.
`Let me see the sole of your right foot.'
The slave lifted his foot and put it over his knee. His Dahran slave identification number had been quik-tatted onto his foot. His SIN.
`Ah, you have been given your Dahran slave number.'
`Yes, sir. It...' the slave stopped and looked at me, as if I might be displeased with something more than the absolute unadorned answer to my comment.
`Go on.'
`It did not hurt, sir. It was over in a second.'
I nodded my understanding.
`Why did you buy me, if I may ask, sir?'
`Because I wanted to, Elliot, and in time, the reasons will become clear to you.'
The slave was quiet, looking at me with those soft eyes which made his handsome brothers adorable.
`Any more questions?'
`No, sir, not at the moment. Thank you for talking to me. You're different to Master Dick who owned me.'
`Different?'
`Master Dick never spoke with me, except to give me an order. I never ever asked him a question and I never sat down in his presence. You are definitely different to Master Dick, sir. No offence meant.'
`Now let me tell you what is going to happen over the next week or so. The centre here is doing some tests on you. They may have taken bloods already.'
I saw the slave nodding.
`I have to be sure you are healthy. I have told the centre that I want that brand removed' and I pointed to his hip.
`They may not be able to do it here, as it will involve surgery, so they may have to bring you to the slave hospital for a day or so. The doctors there are very good. You won't feel a thing. Also, the centre here has an exercise area and I want you to exercise some hours each morning and evening. Understood?'
`Yes, sir,' and he gave the type of smile his brothers give when pleased.
`In my service, my slaves speak English in the mornings and Arabic after midday. You are going to have to start learning Arabic. So each morning and afternoon, you will have a teacher give you a class.'
`Yes, sir.'
`Any last questions, Elliot?'
`One last question, sir. What year is it, sir?'
I told him the year and waited. I knew what he would say before he said it.
`I have been a slave for five years, sir.'
`Yes, Elliot, I know that. It is in your file. Now get over here and let me examine you more closely. When did you last shoot?'
I could see that the slave was now on firmer ground.
`Maybe a week, sir. I came only when my former master instructed me, three days before I was put in the container, sir. I don't know how many days I was in the container. Perhaps, two, and I have been here a number of days.'
The slave was already getting an erection at the mere thought of cumming.
I gently squeezed his stiffening cock and rubbed the ball of my thumb under his cock head, and my hand helped the slave rise to his feet. The slave drew himself up to his full height and put his hands behind his head `at display' and spread his legs wide. This was obviously the position that he had been trained to assume when cumming.
I had not pumped him for more than fifteen or so times, when the slave said, `Sir, I'm cumming' and immediately shot five fluent salvos across the viewing room floor. I would have estimated between three and four feet each shot. He deflated immediately and I did not pump any more.
`Well done, Elliot, you and I are going to get along famously. We shall speak again.'
The slave smiled his first genuine smile of the day. He clearly understood sex and how his sex was there to please his Master.
I went over to the wall and pressed the button to call back Mustafa and give him instructions on the temporary housing and language classes of my new slave. I had other business to attend to.
The drive to al-Mera, the deep seaport, which is down the coast from the capital city had been relaxing. I stopped by a property I had bought on the coast itself not far from al-Mera. It is located about ten minutes from the main road south, on a dusty, not too well-maintained but asphalted desert country road.
The burnt-out house itself had yet to be repaired. That would be another day's work. I had not yet decided on when or how to rebuild it. I noted the Palace's coach parked in the driveway of the house, but no one around. A wide pathway led from the house down towards the sea, and getting out of the Rolls, as Faisal dutifully open the door for me, I strolled slowly down the path.
Concealing myself behind two large boulders at a bend in the path as it curved down towards a cove, more a small inlet of the sea, I could observe those of my slaves who had won the right of a day at the beach, either for the excellence in the performance of their normal duties, or for achieving an overall high placing in the personal fitness programme devised by my Gym Master, Rolf Hanzer.
A dozen were engaged in some form of beach six-a-side football match. I smiled to myself as I saw their blue or yellow thongs, mere slips around their hips and genitals, as their only football gear to give them some identifying colour in the match. Four other slaves were at the edge of the sea, half-sitting, half-reclining in the softly cascading surf, watching a further two swimming in the almost wave-less sea.
A further two were to the side of the cove holding each other in an embrace, and were either just starting or just finishing a session of love-making, engaged in planting small kisses all over each other. A last visible slave was asleep in the shade of a jutting rock, and when he threw an arm back over his head as he adjusted his body in the warm air, I saw that it was Todd Allen, one of the team of Supervisors assigned to driving the coach.
I thought to myself that this was one investment which was definitely paying off, as production had risen on the farms since the introduction of this reward system.
I re-traced myself unseen and unheard by the slaves on the beach and headed on down to the slave centre of al-Mera.
I had decided on using the two centres for this particular project in hand, and it amused me to do so. As Faisal, my Bank driver, manoeuvred the car expertly back into the flow of traffic, I re-read the slave's file on the seat beside me.
I had discussed this case with the Palace doctor and surgeon, Yves Fournier, and while I did not understand the surgical explanation of it, I realised that the slave would serve me a lot better after surgery, which to my mind would certainly improve his value, even his beauty.
The centre was not at all crowded, merely three or four limousines of Dahrans apparently purchasing female household slaves.
Mustafa ben-Mustafa greeted me warmly. Well, then he would, would he not, as I was one of his better clients. But I am being unfair to the man; he is a good business man and a confidante of mine in slave matters.
`I have your slave waiting for your inspection, Sir Jonathan, but first perhaps you might like some refreshment. If you have time I can also show you in a private pre-viewing a small number of slaves who will be up for sale in next week's auction.'
Mustafa was ever the salesman. I declined the pre-viewing for the moment proclaiming an urgency in being elsewhere, but accepted some iced-tea in one of the suites. Mustafa always has interesting stock, but he never allows it for viewing until correctly and basically trained. As he knows I do not purchase African or Far Eastern slaves, which I am told are making up an increasing portion of the slave markets not just in Dahra but elsewhere, the stock he can show me, at times, is somewhat reduced in numbers.
On this occasion, I was interested only in one slave, specifically bought for me in the United States and from a very specific type of sex house in a quiet suburb of a major Louisiana conurbation.
As a second glass of iced-tea was being served by a doe-eyed coffee coloured Moroccan youth dressed in the shortest of short trouser-pants, a garment I thought maybe worn as a concession to the various females among the visiting Dahran families downstairs, I said to Mustafa, `Now what have you been able to buy for me?'
`Precisely, as you ordered, Sir Jonathan,' and he clapped his hands in the direction of the door.
To the clicking of steel links, the slave and his minder walked in the door. The slave was wearing steel bronze coloured ankle bracelets linked by a short chain which allowed him to walk easily, but would not allow him to run. His arms were similarly chained, with the steel bracelets on his wrists linked by a short chain. The sheer amount of metal on his body was what did surprise me.
The slave was wearing a bronze coloured band around his throat all of three inches wide which made the slave keep his head permanently high, a sort of `chin-up' position, and on the band there were various visible small rings which would have allowed chains or similar to be clipped on. He was wearing matching three inch bronze earrings, a nose ring and two nipple rings. The final ring, at least the last visible one that I could see, was again a matching bronze coloured ring through the slit of his circumcised penis which was half-tumescent, caused I suspected by a narrow two inch bronze band around his scrotum which forced the penis out and forced the slave's genitals down.
Although heavily adorned with the pieces of metal, the slave looked magnificent. He carried himself quietly, yet with an interior pride in his adorned body as it was displayed.
I noted that the slave did not look at either myself or Mustafa when he came in, but was looking at a wall behind us, a middle distance look.
I looked at Mustafa and said in Arabic, `You have done well. From order to delivery, in three weeks, no less!'
`Our house aims to serve your needs, Sir Jonathan. We shall now leave you to inspect your purchase privately. He is fully trained and has been quite respectful since his arrival. Just ring the bell, when you require my further services.'
`Before you go, can you have the chains taken off?'
`Yes, indeed, Sir Jonathan, they are merely clipped on and secured. The ankle and wrist bracelets were permanently sealed with an adhesive bond when put on the slave originally.'
He nodded to the minder, who produced something similar to an Allen key and removed the chains. The slave did not move nor acknowledge in any way the removal of the chains, no flexing of arms, no rubbing of wrists, no movement of the hands as if to restore circulation of the blood. He stood as he was standing, perfectly still, as a good slave should.
Mustafa and the minder withdrew, and I stood up to inspect the slave more closely. I noticed that he showed no fear, no inquisitiveness as to his surroundings, nothing other than standing still, as if on his own.
His body was tanned, but not overly so. It might even have been from a suntan lamp or a tanning cubicle. It indicated a slave who had been indoors a lot. His front was unmarked apart from the nipple rings and collar. His back however showed considerable beatings. I did not have to touch his back to see the ridges and scars which went from his shoulders down to the back of his thighs. Yes, indeed, this was one slave who had been severely and methodically beaten!
I put my hand on his neck just under the three inch bronze collar, and let in move down to his waist and buttocks. It was not like touching skin at all, so many were the ridges and scars, but rather it felt like touching rough chipboard.
As I came round to the slave's front again, I saw that his penis was now in full erection. The mere touch of my hand on his back had done that. I wondered to myself what would have been the result of anything more strenuous like a caning or flogging.
On cupping the slave's ball sack, I felt metal at the back of the genitals, and on touching it further I could feel that it was an infibulated ring in the perineum skin at the back of the scrotum. Any link or small chain would effectively be a chastity device linking the ring through the urethra and that of the perineum. The urethra itself appeared enlarged as if elongated items had been inserted into it in the past.
Again the slave had not moved a whit during my examination. I put my hand on the slave's nearest shoulder and applied only sufficient pressure to have him bend forward. He did so immediately and placed his feet just over two feet apart.
I ran my hand down the visible knobs of his spine. His skin was dry and warm, with the slightest trace of perspiration. I let my fingers run down the crack of his backside to his anus and there I was surprised. Normally the sphincter muscle which terminates at the anus is a strong and tight muscle. It has to be for the functions normally demanded of it. However, this slave's anal passage was a soft as a baby's skin. Its musculature felt puffed as if the slave had just been fucked for a number of hours, which clearly in this environment he had not been, or it was as if large dildos or other items had been inserted there in the past and the rectum and its outer passage had not yet tightened itself naturally.
I let one finger enter that most private passage of any slave, and it slid in effortlessly. The puffiness of the flesh continued right in until the tip of my finger had passed through the surrounding muscle. I pulled it out and it slipped out without any resistance. The anus had been liberally treated with some cream or other. I sniffed my finger and the smell was practically odourless, similar indeed to that of a well-known expensive brand of white moisturising cream.
I slipped in two fingers into the slave's moist anus and the thought struck me that he was relaxed and well-trained enough to actually take my whole fist were I to have attempted its insertion. It also struck me that the training of the slave had not been merely the beating of him with whips or canes, but rather by the insertion and manipulation of as of yet unknown items in his rectum.
I extracted my fingers and gave the slave a pat on the butt with a sign to stand up straight. I had not yet spoken a word to the slave and in all my probing and physical assessment of his body, now owned by me, he had not uttered a sound.
I sat back down on my chair. Because of the slave collar, the slave was looking over my head. It would be impossible to hold a conversation with him like that.
Pointing to the floor, I said in English `Sit on the floor.'
The slave looked down at my finger. He did not look in any way surprised at my command and dropped down to the floor on his hunkers and crossed his legs underneath himself. He was that perfect cross between blond and redhead. His eyebrows were almost female in their fineness, his crew-cut hairstyle had a reddish tint to its blondness and I noticed that there was a similar glint of colour in the light downy hairs on his thighs, between which his penis was now leaking precum in its erection. Both he and I ignored that fact.
The slave was again not looking directly at me, but rather at my right shoulder. If memory served correctly of the initial facts I had been given, he was now twenty three and had undergone extensive administration of pain from those whom he had previously served.
`Look directly at me as we speak. Or rather I suppose, I had better do the talking. Do you understand?'
The slave was now looking at me and he nodded as much as his collar would allow.
`I am your new Master. My name is Jonathan Martin.'
I waited. The slave nodded.
`You will be here at this slave centre for about two weeks before you will be brought to my Palace.'
The slave nodded again. I looked down at his feet and could see the SIN quik-tatted onto the sole of his right foot and the GPS between the bronze ankle bracelet and his talus anklebone.
`Your health has to be checked and bloods taken. You understand?'
The slave nodded.
`Also, the ornamentation on your body, the rings, the bracelets and that collar will be taken off.'
The slave touched the collar around his neck in an automatic reflex and then his finger touched briefly the large nose ring which pierced his septum.
`That will go as well. You will end up only with the new GPS bracelet on your ankle. I presume you have been shown the satellite DVD of what happens if you go outside the borders of its settings.'
Again, the slave nodded his understanding.
`I do not allow ornamentation, neither metallic nor tattoos on my slaves, and when in the past, rings have been removed, I have normally let Nature take her course and the holes left would heal up by themselves in about six months. From the medical report I have here, the holes in your septum and ears are now too large to close by themselves, so they have to be closed with some minor surgery. The same for the hole in the tip of your penis. We think that that would heal up okay, but if you have to have the others done, I might as well have that done as well at the same time.'
I think that I read body language quite well. It did appear to me that this information was not being too well-received by the slave and, for a second, I could not understand why. Then it had struck me.
`When those rings were put on before, were you given an anaesthetic?'
The slave shook his head violently and there was a clear fear in his eyes at the memory.
`On that score, you do not have to worry. You will have a general anaesthetic at the slave hospital. You will be asleep, so you will not feel a thing. You're being given that because, once that ring band is removed from your balls, your balls are going to be very low hanging, and that, according to my Palace doctor, will cause problems for you in time. I am going to have surgeon tighten your scrotum so that your balls are nice and snug up against your body.'
I looked at the strange ring cylinder which had been fixed onto his body around the skin of his scrotum between his cock and his balls. It was all of five inches of piping. When I had first seen a picture of it, I did not know its purpose and had to ask. The explanation had been simple, when the slave was on his back and being fucked, the five inch piping acted as a type of handle which, when pulled by the penetrating sex partner towards him or in a downwards direction, ensured the deepest of penetrations.
It also ensured that the slave when being flogged would not be able to move his buttocks once the cylinder was clipped into place on a frame.
The slave had nodded his understanding again of what I had been saying, this time unbidden. The fear had left his eyes somewhat, but not entirely.
`One last thing: are you able to speak at all? Can you make any sound?'
The slave's eyes rounded in surprise. Slowly, he raised his hand to above the bronze collar and squeezed above what I could see of his Adam's apple, the sound which issued was like a hoarse breeze, Hessss,' and there was a space and another breath and a further barely audible hoarseness hsirrrr'. None of the consonants had been sibilant, none had been voiced. The consonants had been more or less incorporated into the breath, breathed over and no more.
`The surgeon is also going to operate on your throat so as to restore something of your voice. What he is going to do is to put into your throat a little tube-like device called a prosthesis, a tracheo-oesophageal prosthesis. It will be in the oesophagus of your throat. In time, you will get back about three-quarters of your voice, but not all your voice. When your vocal chords were cauterised, it did too much damage. But the prosthesis will do wonders and you will be able to talk again.'
His previous owner, according to the file notes, some five years previously had cauterised his vocal chords to stop the slave screaming when being tortured or punished. It had been a most effective and permanent, well surgically speaking, an almost permanent, gag.
I really should have gone more slowly with all this surgery explanation, for the slave was now looking at the ground and I could see tears running down his cheeks.
`Don't worry, Mattie, you won't know yourself in two days time. The surgeon will do all these small operations tomorrow and as I say, you will be sound asleep when it all happens.'
The eldest of the Peoples brothers was looking at me with red eyes, and he wiped a runny nose with the back of his hand and then wiped the back of his hand on his back as he sat cross-legged on the floor.
He then put his fingers up to his throat again and breathed out in his almost inaudible hoarseness, `Huaiiii, hssssirrrh?'
Why? Because I can. Because it pleases me, and because there is something else which I will tell you about in time. I know that you have been at that so called Pain Den' for the past six years, but that, Mattie, is now all behind you. While I am a slave-owner and gay as you will find out, I take little pleasure in hurting my slaves for sadistic pleasure's sake alone. I punish some of my slaves, some very severely even for long times on end with hard labour and hard tasks, but I do not punish for the mere pleasure of it. Generally not anyway.'
Mattie Peoples seemed to convulse and it was as if some floodgate barrier to a dam had burst inside him, because he bent forward on the floor and with his hands clasped behind his neck there was the most awful gasping of lungs trying to suck in air and of trying to weep at the same time. I had never heard anything quite like it.
I bent forward and laid my hand on his shoulder, and the slave shuffled forward on his knees to put his forehead on the uppers of my shoes and grasped my legs, around the back of heels with his hands as his outpouring of emotion continued.
I waited some minutes until the weeping had subsided and said `at display'.
The slave's training held and he snapped back and up on his feet, his hands behind his head, his hips pushed out and his gut sucked in. The only difference to a normal slave was the snot down his face, the wet cheeks and completely red eyes in his head as if they had been hit with pepper spray.
I got up and rang the buzzer. Mustafa and the minder were back with me within the minute. I motioned to the minder to take the slave out.
As soon as the door had closed behind the two, Mustafa inquired what my instructions about my new slave were.
`First, I want to attend to the removal of his metal ornamentation. I have just told him what surgery I was going to have done on his body.'
`Extensive surgery?'
`You might say that. For the moment, I am having those rings and bands taken off his body. I have told the slave what is going to happen to him.'
`Immediately, Sir Jonathan.'
`And this evening, I want him transferred to the slave section of the university hospital. My own surgeon has been given instructions and is going to operate on him there tomorrow morning. I am told that the slave will be there for up to three days, depending on the operations' success. If he has to return here, can you keep him separated from the other slaves.'
`Absolutely no problem, Sir Jonathan. Would you by any chance be interested in having a DVD made of the surgery?'
`I do not think so. Why?'
`Some clients document such procedures. Especially when it is extensive surgery particularly involving the removal of body parts.'
`Real life surgery action DVDs? For private viewing?'
`Yes, Sir Jonathan. For sale. There is a big market for DVDs showing surgery being performed on slaves. A big market.'
`No. I don't think there will be a DVD.'
`As you wish, Sir Jonathan. And may I congratulate you on your interview technique. Less than ten minutes and a few well-chosen words about extensive surgery. More than enough for the Retrainer of Dahra to leave a distinct impression on a slave. I am sure he will be a model of docility, having been shown the full extent of a Master's power.'
With a smile, which was neither a yeah or a nay, I was about to bid my adieus to the owner of the slave centre, when he gave me his bit of bad news.
`The third slave, Sir Jonathan, you wished to buy is not up for sale. His owner does not sell personal slaves. I have actually spoken with the owner's Head of Household who informed me that was the case and would not even put the suggestion to his Master, whom I think you realise is well known internationally.'
I gave my thanks to Mustafa. That was one avenue which had been closed, but as I always maintain there is more than one way to skin a cat.
Whether in preparing a meal for friends, or putting together a Bank deal, what is important is the step-by-step preparation. Wise people say that the longest journey, which I suppose must include all of life's actions, begins with the first step.
In this latest of my pet projects, two pieces out of four had moved towards their final resting places on the chess board. Two more were still up in the air of which only the first was causing me problems and the second of which would, in the fullness of time, simply fall into place.
One of the small things in which I take delight is keeping an open house for friends who might drop by. With the second floor's bedrooms more often than not uninhabited than occupied by guests, when one more does arrive he is more than welcome.
So when Budd Chavez, the former third secretary at the American Embassy, now working for Deckams head office in London, intimated that he might like to come for a visit, I emailed him back from the office immediately to tell him to come. He had to take ten days holidays before the end of year or else forfeit them, and I smiled to myself in knowing Deckams' Personnel Partner's yearly November reminders on untaken holidays. `Take'em or weep' was his famous summary.
As Budd had felt slightly uncomfortable on his last visit when inveigled by a former university friend into getting an interview with me, he felt he had abused his friendship with me. I assured him no way' and in a gesture, to convince him of my bona fides and lack of annoyance at his innocence in the previous matter, I booked him a return ticket on the New Concorde which did upset him, if his email of reply was to be believed. I replied nonsense' and that I was looking forward to seeing him, as I presumed would be as well.
That someone else was young Terry Peoples who had looked after Budd on his first visit to the Palace and, as he told me one night in the throes of ejaculating, awaited his return anxiously so that he could please Budd as much as he was pleasing me. It was a nice thought from a young slave who had quite a focus and handle on sex.
End of Chapter 11
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