Dahran

The Time Line 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

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 Adobe Acrobat format on http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

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Chapter 5 - Patriotism

I normally do not go out of my way to meet slaves at my Palaces. I either come across them or I do not. One slave I had finally assigned to the Lime Palace was Nigel Broaders as it was the Palace farthest of the three away from me and I had no wish to be bumping into him until he was well and truly practised in the ways of my Palaces.

The second reason was that the Lime Palace was under the control of my dearly beloved Aziz al-Aziz and apart from one or two other Overseers if there was anyone who could inculcate and instil Palace manners on Nigel Broaders it would be he. Not that Aziz was overbearing or cruel, but rather he was as strict with slaves as he was with himself, and despite his age, of which no one was quite sure, he wielded a wicked camel-cane when he had to.

I remember that I did ask him once why he did not let one of the other Supervisors dole out the cane strokes as was his right to order. Aziz replied with a simple and unassailable logic, `the higher the authority punishing, the greater the punishment. A disproving glance from a Master is much more detrimental than a dozen strokes of a cane. The slave will know that the weals of the strokes will disappear in time, but will not know until the blow is struck what lay behind the glance of the Master. A single stroke of a cane from an Overseer improves the behaviour of a slave more than five from a Supervisor.'

Aziz still maintains his own household on about seven or so acres of the Lime Palace grounds and if the truth be told his home is a jewel among small Palaces carefully tended by his seven original slaves, though Hassan still teaches Arabic to my slaves -- one of a number of the little overlaps in our households.

As Aziz had mentioned how well the water gardens were looking at the Lime Palace, after dinner one evening having looked at them with him, I walked up alongside him to his home. As we approached the Palace, we came across two slaves unloading a small delivery trailer which had arrived after hours.

It was Nigel I recognised first, now devoid of the stainless steel nipple rings with which I had previously had him adorned by way of punishment. It was mutual recognition because he and the other slave dropped to their knees and touched the ground with their foreheads. When they got up, I saw that the other slave was Misha whom I had last found tied to a tree.

The two slaves stood at display waiting an instruction to continue their work.

`What are you doing here, Misha, when you should be at the al-Kadir property?'

`I told Supervisor Konrad to volunteer me, Master, for any work after hours. I finished unloading the other trailer at the al-Kadir property and I came here to help unload this one with Nigel.'

The slave looked slightly embarrassed. It was a far cry from his previous frivolous and flippant attitude. I looked at Nigel. The perspiration was running down from his armpits. What looked like food supplies were on the trailer and a number of containers were at his feet.

Still looking at him in the eye, I said `and you, slave, are you not capable of finishing your work on time that you need help from other Palaces? I thought that you had work to do with my gym instructor' I said coldly.

Whichever way he answered, he would be stuck.

`I am sorry, Master, for not finishing on time. Misha came to help. It is not his fault.'

`How is he behaving, Aziz?'

`Slowly but surely learning the ways of the Palace and what it means to serve you, his Master.'

`You still have to have him punished, even after his training? Do you think he needs to go back again to the compounds?'

I saw Nigel tremble, but Aziz replied, `he has been punished like any other slave when he is tardy, Jonathan. This delivery was after hours. No, he does not need to re-visit the compounds, at least not at the moment. As for the gym work, he had finished that for the day.'

I saw a flash of relief and gratitude to Aziz rush over Nigel's face and be gone as quickly as it had appeared. There was something else in his eyes which were not quite on Aziz, but looking over Aziz's shoulder. It was admiration. Yes, that was it that and respect for my aged Overseer.

`Do you wish me, Jonathan, to have them continue the unloading now?'

Yes, indeed, Aziz. Let them continue,' and addressing Misha, I said, Do you have a buddy yet?'

`No, Master.'

`Tell Supervisor Konrad to find you a buddy this evening.'

I looked at Nigel, the other slave. I knew well he did not have a buddy, and I let him know with my silence that he was not getting one today.

On the diplomatic circuit, it never ceases to be some nation's or other's national holiday. I had been allotted attendance at an evening function of the Embassy of Singapore in early April. My junior partners had just snapped up more exotic ones with Morocco and Jamaica. But Ambassador Gopal of Singapore and his charming wife were courteous to a diplomatic extreme and excellent hosts, so I looked forward to seeing them on this their last reception before they moved to take up their new post in China.

I had not expected to see many at the function as April is a late skiing holiday month in Dahra for diplomats and the international set, but, when I saw the crowd present to say their official goodbyes to an obviously popular diplomatic couple, many had forsaken the late snows of Courcheval and stayed in Dahra.

In a scrum of evening suits and flowing robes, I accepted a flute of champagne and a canape, and swivelled on my heels to get out of the crush when I found myself face to face with none other than the U.S. Ambassador, Dwight Powers.

`Sir Jonathan, what a pleasure to see you again.'

`Mr. Ambassador, a delight to see you.'

What lies we tell under the guise of politeness, invisible tectonic plates hidden from the surfaces of civilised conversation.

`I see you have managed to get yourself something to drink. Here's to your good health,' he said raising his own glass, as we were propelled in an anti-vortex of bodies to one side of the function room.

`Your health, Ambassador,' I replied in like fashion.

`Dwight, please, Sir Jonathan. We know each other too well for formalities.'

Not that well, I thought to myself, and if I could have gotten away more quickly than I could envision in the present press of the crowd, I would have. But escape was impossible in the angle of the room we were in. It was diplomatic to grin and bear it.

`I hear that you are planting kiwifruit,' the Ambassador continued.

`Oh, just a few acres.'

The Ambassador laughed out loud, and commented `more than just a few acres from what I hear.'

`It's a long-term investment. They tell me the plants last all of thirty years and fruit every year.'

`Tended by a very good workforce, I also hear.'

`There are no secrets in Dahra, Dwight. We just don't talk of them, do we?'

`Indeed not, Sir Jonathan; that is what makes Dahra such an asset and such an enigma. Even in this age of advanced technology, the Embassy knows so little of you, other than that what you want to reveal. Our Dahran cousins are very protective of their own, and I hear you have even been given a Dahran passport.'

`Yes, a singular honour, I am given to understand. Indeed, I was very moved by His Excellency's gesture.'

It was very clear that the Ambassador had something on his mind, so I eased into the topic.

`It is not always easy, Dwight, to do what everyone wants of us. I am still not able to accommodate what you requested previously. It would be too dangerous for me and for those who work for me.'

`Who I am given to understand are now over five hundred originally from many countries.'

The Ambassador was half-right and I was not about to correct a diplomat.

`You wish to ask something, Dwight?'

`Yes, you may not be able to answer. A mercenary called Ray Toepher has disappeared.'

I could not help but riposte `hopefully not carrying a Kalashnikov.'

The Ambassador breathed through his nose.

`I thought you would know. They say you know everything here - that everything of importance crosses your path or your desk. Is there anything you can tell me, Jonathan?'

Information always has its price,' I replied, noticing that he had dropped the Sir' as he went intimate on me.

`I...we will owe you one.'

`Ray Toepher is safe and sound in my employ. I have actually just promoted him recently to a new position. He is hale and hearty and, believe it or not, quite happy with his lot. Under Dahran law, he was just a shade away from being beheaded. Why in heaven's name did your man give him a machine gun? What did you expect to achieve?'

He came highly recommended via our military attache who has now thankfully been promoted elsewhere. We hoped to be able to finally put the Vine matter to rest, now we may never know' and changing tack, the Ambassador asked cautiously, do you have, Jonathan, other Americans in your employ?'

`You know very well I have, Dwight. One of my dentists, the general manager of a corporation I own is another, for example.'

`Yes, Jonathan, we know of Dr. Thorson and Gus Jennings. That of course, is not what I was referring to. It's the others that we do not know of, just suspect. Do you know that two of our Marines offered to go in and try and find out if you still employed, as you say, other Americans?'

The bubbles of the champagne caught the back of my throat as I laughed and spluttered, imagining two presumably white-assed US Marines trying to be incongruous among my well sun-tanned slaves.

`Dwight, you are a shade too curious. It might not be prudent for me to say anything about others in my employ. While I might trust you personally, you are merely the eyes and ears of many others back Stateside, as you say, and they certainly would never stay quiet, if it were in their interests to come in to liberate US citizens and in the process to liberate the third or fourth largest gas and oil reserves in the world as well.'

Dwight Powers opened and closed his mouth. He was no one's fool and he knew I was right.

`You are still adamant, Jonathan, that you cannot assist even with non-violent persons whom our administration would dearly love to place with you as you did with the EU?'

`For the time being, Dwight, my answer is still no. But as you have been honest in raising that point, let me give you one other small piece of information. Any one in my employ is happy and content, serving me well. They have education, free and abundant food, housing, what you might term free club, gym and pool memberships, days on the beach. A simple but structured life.'

It is curious how we can lie by omission. I had not mentioned the slaves' lack of clothing or any other possessions, their lack of physical movement outside the borders of Dahra, nor their lack of female companionship. Yes, indeed. Lies are not just statements contrary to the truth of facts. Lies are indeed the omission of statements of facts.

`Ah, is that the South African Ambassador signalling me, Dwight? A pleasure to have met you again.'

Again, a little white diplomatic lie, not really a pleasure but at least not as painful an experience as a pulled muscle or a twisted ankle.

We raised our glasses to each other in a departing toast and I crossed the room to see if I could drum up some Bank business on one of those new South African bond placements.

When a dog is given a bad name, there is no escaping his reputation, be it true or false. The diplomatic function ebbed and flowed and I found myself talking to one of Dahra's leading builders, a very quiet and small man with piercing eyes which were full of questions.

We skirted around issues; we discussed pleasantries, anecdotes, even commenting on the heat of the month. I could see the businessman working around to what he wanted really to ask. It is the Dahran and the Arab way, never to address an issue directly. This drives our German acquaintances mad and our American cousins round the proverbial bend.

Sir Jonathan, if it is not impolite, might I enquire how you earned the title of Retrainer', by which you are sometimes known?'

`Ah, that is exaggeration. I have re-trained some five slaves for friends and acquaintances, but the reputation has been blown out of all proportion. Those whom I did retrain are now very valuable Supervisors of others in my employ.'

Yes, indeed, Sir Jonathan, that I can but imagine. I have merely to allude to the retrainer' in my own household and the slaves are perfectly well behaved for a month. I even mentioned the word `retrainer' on one of my construction projects last month, and absenteeism stopped for a fortnight. You should franchise the title,' he said with a smile.

`Not at all; it is question of giving a dog a bad name, as we say in English. I think if native Dahrans actually want to re-train their own slaves they have eight hundred years of handed-down experience with which to do it.'

The businessman again smiled and this time, he nodded as well.

It was a case of enough said.

There are times when nothing works at all, and then again, there are times when everything runs like clockwork. My life had been partially re-written with the discovery of the existence of my son, Richard Martin Black. I had repeated his name so many times in my mind and each time was, as if it were the first, such was the extraordinary joy and pleasure I felt.

Parenthood is hard to put into words as is the sharing of a new life between lovers or spouses or partners. In my case, it was not so much parenthood, but rather more specifically fatherhood. The life which was now so irrevocably linked to mine had created a fatherhood of mere weeks and was starting on its odyssey of its creation, while the motherhood which my son's existence had created has been there for all of twenty four years and was quickly drawing to its end.

For some reason, I had told no one, for the moment, of Richard's existence but I asked Josh Greene, my lawyer in the Cayman Islands to draw up a new will for me immediately. Being a banker, wills for me are not an emotional thing taking ages to mull over and further ages to decide upon. They are factual testamentary documents whose legal bindings and provisions must be clear and to the point. We live in a dangerous world and life can end on a change in the wind.

The only major changes to my existing will were to include Richard as the main and principal beneficiary and to re-distribute some assets. Having filled in the blank spaces of the freshly drafted will, before dinner one evening I asked two of the medical staff doctors to witness my signature.

`Your will, Jonathan? You're not sick are you? As your doctor I should know and I don't think so' Yves Fournier said with a smile, a layman's normal comment in such matters testamentary.

`Not at all, Yves, just thinking of the future. And while on that subject, just so that you know and that your mind can be at peace on the matter, there is a provision in the will to sell Jean-Pierre to you if you wish to purchase him after my death. The Buddy Foundation, which will control my Dahran assets, will have no right to sell him to any other. If the Foundation does not sell him to you, he is to be cared for, for the rest of his life.'

Jean-Pierre Fournier had been as much a layabout as his father had been brilliant. He had sponged on his father and on all and sundry and developed both thieving and drug habits. I had had him lifted to protect him from a life in jail in France and also so that he could have a life free of drugs albeit as my slave at the Aloe Palace. Since he had received the shock of his life at being enslaved and put on a water-wheel to break him into a habit of obedience, he had never given a day's trouble at the Palace and was now the Supervisor of a kofila.

I noted over time that each Wednesday Yves never dined with me, but had dinner served to him in his own suite, for two. This I had discovered quite by accident and I never enquired for whom the second dinner was intended. I never had to. A father's love reaches over many a barrier.

`Thank you, Jonathan. Jean-Pierre and I talk now a lot more than we used to, and in his own way, he is happy here. I know that he is safer here than in prison in France where he would have ended up, without a shadow of a doubt, and where he would have spent many, many years because of his drug dealing.'

`I'm glad, Yves, that he is reconciled with you. Anyway, now as of this moment or in the future you can buy him legally.'

I just hoped that this special treat for Jean-Pierre did not cause him to think that he was in any way special as to the other slaves.

The second doctor, the Brazilian Miraldo Coelho, was looking and listening to both of us and rather seriously at that.

`Will you also do me a favour, Jonathan, if that is your will?' he said.

`Yes?'

`In the event of your death, allow me to buy Tony Sert and Sergio Goncalves.'

Tony is his lover and Sergio, his assistant. I looked at him and thought of the invaluable work that Miraldo did at the Palaces. Although technically Yves' assistant, it was he who effectively ran the surgeries as Yves immersed himself in his research for me.

There and then I wrote in a codicil in ink as Miraldo had suggested, and signed the will and codicil, allowing the two of them then to witness my signature to both parts.

Before their eyes, I sealed the large brown envelope with my final testamentary dispositions and signed its flap sealing it with wax and the imprint of the opal ring on my little finger.

I put the brown envelope with my new will in the out-tray and thought how easy it is to dispose of wealth, but how impossible it is to make people happy unless they themselves want to be happy or take the necessary steps to become happy.

Part of the trick, I think, is making a bargain with life to accept the hand you are dealt such as Yves' son, Jean-Pierre, who was now in acceptance-mode of that hand, something that he had never accepted prior to his slavedom.

As we walked in to dinner, Miraldo looked at me and said, `You know, Jonathan, I have had my fair share of lovers in my life before coming to Dahra, but Tony Sert is the only one I have loved.'

`And Sergio?'

`Sergio is Sergio. And Brazilian like me. What more reason is there than that?

Patriotism vests itself at times in many garments right down to just loving a fellow national. Even though I have a number of Brazilians among my slaves, and very good workers at that, Sergio is the only one among the slaves who really stays in my mind when I think of that country. The others are an amorphous lot with slim bodies and cocks of various shades of chocolate brown and jet black hair.

`You're looking very serious this evening, Jonathan,' Yves Fournier said as we walked in towards the dining room.

`Yes, I suppose so, Yves. Wills do have that effect on people and I'm just looking to the future. If I may bring up a topic without insulting either of you. Money. Yves, are you alright financially for the future?'

Yves gave up a lucrative university hospital posting to take on the medical work at the Palaces all of five years previously.

`Jonathan, I have no expenses here. My life is my work. My work is my life. Your quarter of a million each year goes into a private Bank in Paris and they invest it for me. I have just under three million at the moment. So, I have no financial worries.'

Miraldo Coelho was standing at his elbow having been the other witness to the will.

He commented unasked, `Two million in the Bank and all is well, Jonathan. I don't know when I last wrote a cheque.'

`I'm glad you both have no financial troubles. I must have a talk with Cal and see how he and his family are getting one.'

The three of us chuckled at the thought of Cal.

Dr. Cal Thorson is a strange case for a dentist and a marriage. He returns each August to his wife. And each August, for the first four years I knew him, a new boy was conceived. They have now eight boys who are cared for by his wife and an invalid ex-military brother-in-law for the rest of the year. And then, he is back to his work. As I say a strange case. I commented once on him having an all-boy family and would it not cause problems later for them not having a father figure around.

He smiled and said, `Jonathan, you have not met my wife and you definitely not met my brother-in-law. He is more of a father figure than I could ever be.'

He had left it at that. And so did I.

I caught Jack Tuttle in a spare moment at the Bank and outlined my proposed changes at the Buddy Foundation, giving him a handsome sum as compensation for loss of office. One's own flesh and blood is thicker than the flesh and blood of a sister's offspring. He wanted to refuse the compensation but I insisted. I sent Richard an email saying that I was putting him on the board of a foundation, and that I hoped he would not mind.

Small things can give great pleasure, and in learning about them, we learn a lot about life and indeed, about ourselves. The greater schemes of life and the universe pass over our heads unnoticed until some fool nation declares a war or some such thing.

In my case, two of the small things which gave me great pleasure was to watch a monthly gymnastics display given by my slaves. It had started off apparently with some slave trying to imitate Komil Rostov, who had been an athlete in his time and who had used various floor routines for some form of on-the-spot training. It just took off from there.

Once a month therefore, I was being invited up to the gym and pool area of the Palace to see anything up to forty slaves put on a display which normally went from the simpler individual to the simple floor movements, and ever so often, three or four of the slaves would quite excel. The gym displays were one of the three occasions when the slaves would put on cotton briefs of various colours to keep their genitals from flopping around. The other two occasions when bathing slips are worn are for water-polo matches or for the special reward trips to the beach.

I had been talking to Ahmed al-Atti, the owner of the al-Qatim slave centre in early April as my Overseers were choosing some extra slaves for the al-Kadir farm. It was a good system that I had now devised where the Overseers would come with me and choose the slaves. It was enjoyable to see how many of them agreed on the differing slaves and for what reasons. Where two or more agreed on a particular slave on the dais, I would buy him, and we then came to an agreement on any others depending on how many were needed. On the last visit to the slave centre, the al-Kadir property still only had about half the final numbers that I knew would be necessary for the new farmlands. The Sheik's gift, as it is called, of extra desert lands south of the Palaces would also have to be reclaimed soon.

There is a common misconception about deserts. Many people picture large sand dunes such as you see in Morocco or the deeper parts of the Arabian deserts.

The deserts of Dahra are mainly what in other parts would be called sandy scrub lands. Oh, certainly there are sand dunes in the interior, but in the main, it is rocky stone land which just needs a lot of water and fertiliser. With those two ingredients things grow abundantly, as the third ingredient, heat, is provided free gratis and for nothing by the sun.

I was sipping a fruit-juice with Ahmed, the owner, in one of his hospitality suites which, on one side, overlook the viewing area of the al-Qatim slave centre, and quite by chance I commented that one of the slaves down on a dais looked like a gymnast. The slave in question had very good broad muscular shoulders, marvellous biceps which were well displayed, as his wrists were velcroed behind his neck. The slave must have been about five foot eight and had a very slim waist, almost a V-shape, which to my mind is always associated with a gymnast or a butterfly-stroke swimmer.

As I say, I merely commented on the slave, and Ahmed never known to miss a trick in the salesman's book of how to sell a slave in a few easy lessons, clicked his fingers at once in the direction of an observant assistant and had the slave brought up to me for inspection.

As it turned out the slave was Turkish and had been into amateur weightlifting, which appears to be a popular sport in that country. I said to the assistant to release the slave's wrists from behind his head, and as they were released he flexed his arms as if to get better circulation into them, and put his clasped hands over his genital area. I looked him in the eye and then at his hands and then in the eye again. Slowly, he lifted his hands from over his genitals and put them back behind his neck, taking the at display' position. I half-smiled at the slave and nodded at him, more on his quick uptake of my stare. He silently nodded his head, which I took to be some form of thank you'. Slaves have long been forbidden to speak while on display, particularly in my presence, I am informed.

I noticed that his eyes were boring into mine, not aggressively, but attentively, not challenging, but trying to understand what I was doing or about to do. Only fools know everything and this slave was no fool. He was a quick learner.

His nipples were very small, and as I stroked each nipple, not aggressively but firmly, I said to the assistant `What are the slave's details in his file?'

The assistant took up the file from the pile representing those on display and started to read me out the details. I touched the slave's belly and he started as if tickled, but then did not move further as I let my middle finger press against his navel and let my hand wander down his treasure trail.

By the time my hand had touched his public hair, the slave's erection was complete and a drop of clear precum was to be seen oozing from his penis.

`The slave has not been allowed to ejaculate in four days, Master. His balls are full. Would you like me to have him ejaculate for you to show you his virility, or would you like me to masturbate the slave?'

`No, this is fine. I can see the slave's virility and his penis feels totally hard in my hand,' which was the truth.

I ran my hand over the slave's buttocks and there was no sign of any weals to be felt under my touch. I smiled to myself as the slave now went even more erect and his penis was hard up against his belly. He obviously liked a hand on his backside which was slightly hairy but just nice for his five foot five or so build.

`He is a fine slave, Ahmed.'

The assistant had said he was a factory worker.

`An excellent slave who can be worked hard, Sir Jonathan,' was Ahmed's continuing reply.

`Well, let's see what my Overseers choose before I interfere with their numbers,' and gave the slave a firm pat on the backside sending him over to the assistant to take the slave back to his dais. Again, the slave nodded to me. Polite slave, I thought to myself. I wonder would I have been so calm and composed in a reverse situation.

Never to lose a trick, Ahmed said `Are you interested in gymnasts, Sir Jonathan?'

`Not really, Ahmed,' and I mentioned the display that some of the slaves were now putting on for me each month.

I gave the matter no further great thought and continued watching Yuriy, Dumi, Komil, and Georgi make their choices at our private viewing. How easily I had put aside any thoughts that I might not have been promoting a trade in slaves throughout the world! How easily new forms of life are accepted in the new nations of today, doing there what the citizens of the new nations do!

As it turned out, only Dumi had given my Turk a mark. The other two Overseers nothing. I told Dumi to give him an extra mark for me and with a huge grin, he did so, showing it to the other two Overseers as much as to say `I told you so'. The Turk, Nesim Murat, was the only one who had caught my eye and my interest.

The thirty three slaves came to just under a quarter of a million euro. There was no shortage of slaves on the markets now for quite some time and no sign of any shortage occurring. As I was signing the cheque for Ahmed al-Atti, he said to me `Sir Jonathan, on Tuesday of next week, I am holding a series of private showings, perhaps I could interest you in some speciality slaves.'

`Ah, no, Ahmed, thank you. You know I have very simple tastes. I prefer ordinary slaves who do extraordinary things, and not speciality slaves who do not know how to clean a toilet. I have really only allowed myself that luxury twice and those occasions were the purchase of two Aussie rules football players and two Slovak twins where I paid a very foolish price down at al-Mera.'

`Ah, Sir Jonathan, I think I heard about the twins. But every man must be allowed a little madness in his life. If they are not suitable for their purpose, send them to me and I shall sell them as a speciality for you and get you a good price. Unfortunately, it would be nothing like the price you paid for them.'

I thought of these two water-boys and the shock that any such proposed sale would have on them and the entire body of my slaves, as once bought, I never sold a slave, apart from a handful or two of transfers to my Head of Household, Aziz al-Aziz, at the Lime Palace and to Jack Tuttle, my nephew at the Wisteria Palace.

`But do come to the special showings next week. Tuesday, remember any time from midday onwards.'

I did not commit myself one way or the other, but commented that Tuesday was normally a busy day of the week.

Usually when slaves are brought to my Palaces, there is a well-honed set of procedures which fall into place. The slaves are given a full medical to confirm the more perfunctory one done at the slave centre, checked separately for eyes and teeth, and can be assured of the removal of verrucas, any body cysts and all tattoos, of which there seems to be an increasing number and variety. Those who have body hair have it removed with loads of depilatory cream applied a number of times over a period of weeks, and also have their head and pubic hair trimmed. Most slaves go through the compounds to complete their obedience training. In very few cases are there problems with language at this stage, as it is a question of doing what the slave in front of you is doing.

So, I was somewhat surprised to see Zeki Kemal, one of my Turkish Supervisors approach me one evening, after dinner as slaves are allowed to do, with one of the new slaves in tow, the small Turkish slave that I had bought some days previously. What was his name? Yes, Nesim something or other!

It had taken me some time to warm to Zeki as a Supervisor because when I had bought him from one of my neighbours as part of a batch of slaves, I had taken an immediate dislike to him and to his companion Berk Onur, who had been Supervisors on the neighbour's farm which I had bought. That state of a Master's dislike for a slave is always an unfortunate one, because if the Master dislikes his slave, the slave's life not just can be, but most likely will be a misery. I had demoted the two of them and had them both work their way back up the greasy pole of my estimation. In fairness, to both of them, I had had no complaints since. But as they say once you give a dog a bad name, it is hard for the dog to shed the ill reputation.

`Zeki, I have not spoken to you for some time. How is the work you are doing for me progressing?'

`I hope the Master is well-pleased with it. I have a good kofila and they, and I, work hard to please you Master.'

`Why are you here this evening?'

`It is about this new slave here that you have bought, Master, Nesim Murat.'

`Yes?'

`For the moment, he speaks nothing but Turkish. He was from the eastern part of the country, and he wishes me to give you a message or rather to translate a message from him.'

`Yes?'

I presumed that the slave beside Zeki merely wished to thank me for his new buddy and I would not dally with him, nor he with me. I was looking at the slave standing at rest', when Zeki said to me, He wants you, Master, to take his virginity.'

`What did you say?'

When there is a line of slaves requesting favours, I must admit that sometimes my mind is on auto-pilot. I had surely misheard what the Supervisor had said.

`Master, he wants you to take his virginity.'

I was now looking at the slave and he was looking at me and as Zeki stopped speaking, the slave quite clearly nodded his head to affirm a statement in a language he did not know.

`Why would he say a thing like that? No slave has ever asked that so directly.'

`He asked me and Berk Onur what would happen to him here at the Palace. We told him he would work for you on the farms; that he would be punished if he did not work well; that he would be cared for, fed, given all the medical treatment he might need. The dentist has already fixed his teeth as the Master can see.'

With that Zeki said something in Turkish to the slave, who immediately dazzled me with a perfect upper and lower set of teeth.

`We also told him, Master, that like the other slaves he would be put through the compounds to secure his obedience and then given a job to do mostly like on the new al-Kadir farm. But in talking about the compounds we mentioned the butt-plugs and the butt-fucking in the fifth compound. At that, the slave became very distressed, because he says the only thing he has to offer you in thanks for buying him is his virginity. He says that he has never been with a woman or with a man.'

I looked at the slave and I knew that long-term he and I would get on very well as slave and Master. I am a sucker for gratitude - always have been - and here was a modest slave who exposed himself to me willingly and freely at the auction rooms and now was offering me what he thought was his only remaining unique gift.

I beckoned Nesim closer so that only he and Zeki could hear what I was going to say.

`Interpret for me, Zeki.'

The Supervisor nodded.

`I appreciate a grateful slave and one who trusts me. I appreciate even more an obedient one. You will go through the compounds, but you will not be fitted with a butt-plug or dildo, and in the fifth compound you will not be fucked by the slaves with the longest and thickest cocks in the three Palaces. You will come out of the compounds still a virgin and then you and I will speak again.'

Zeki finished translating my words.

The slave beside him sank to his knees and put my right foot on the back of his neck and said something muffled.

`He has said "thank you, Master".'

I was looking at the slave's upturned backside. Without the hair which the depilatory cream had removed as part of the standard procedures, it looked even more appetising than when I had seen it last. It would be my pleasure to take Nesim's virginity in the fullness of time.

There is definitely no accounting for the ideas that go through the heads of slaves!

End of Chapter 5

===========

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The Dahran series -- a fictional adventure story about the life and times of Sir Jonathan Martin -- comprises the following novels to date:

1. The Changed Life

2. The Reluctant Retrainer

3. The Market Offer

4. The Special Memories

5. The Dahran Way

6. The Dahran Rebuttals

7. The Seventh Desert

8. The Dahran Sands

9. The Time Line

These novels are all serialised on Nifty (Gay -- Authoritarian) and on YahooGroups http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories