Dahran

The Time Line by Gerry Taylor

This is the ninth 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 9 -- Absolutism

There used to be a phrase in the time of the old monarchies that `the king could do no wrong'. It placed the ruler comfortably above the law in the divine right of monarchs and princes, and was a most convenient way of structuring the governing of societies that were small and localised enough.

Unfortunately, in the modern world, absolutism has fallen by the wayside as countries have tried their hand at political systems which have ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, from the divine to the working class, from the humanly wise to the outright farcical, and passing through every shade in between. Some nations have settled on various forms of democracy as if the people in some form of collective wisdom could know what is best for themselves. Time has already, and will show up even more, the cracks in those populist theories.

In only a few countries in this modern world has the absolute rule of law remained and Dahra on the Gulf is one of this handful. His Excellency the Sheik can do no wrong and that absolutism extends down the line and does not interfere inside the walls and under the roofs of the citizens and residents of the Sheikdom, where just a mere fraction of that absolute power resides with each head of household.

This is particularly important for those who live as freemen within a household and more importantly for those who live there as slaves at the service of their Master or Mistress. Political theory is very much simplified in Dahra where the Master rules and well-trained slaves know their places.

I found these thoughts in my mind after my return from London at the end of April and right into the month of May. I don't know what caused them other than an accompanying thought as I breezed through Customs after my return flight that I was now one of Dahra's citizens with my own brand new Dahran passport, a gift from the Sheik and ruling council, and a resident of the country for all of five years.

My fortune had expanded exponentially from a very modest couple of hard earned million when I had arrived as a banker of unassuming means and now ranged from holdings of land and slaves within the Sheikdom giving me considerable Dahran status, to a portfolio of shares and bonds held out of the Grand Cayman. The precise value in hundreds of millions I am ashamed to admit I do not know, despite receiving a monthly overview from Josh Greene, my lawyer and financial adviser there. Or as I have tended to say cynically, `if you know your wealth, you are poor'.

In Dahra, wealth is related to a number of factors. For the Sheikdom, it is oil and gas. For its citizens, it is depends on many things such as an almost personal tax neutral state which allows wealth to accumulate easily. Wealth is also based on the ready availability of water or slaves, essential ingredients in the nation's services, agriculture and light-manufacturing industries. Of both these mentioned items, I have an abundance and hence, they form without a shadow of a doubt the basis of my wealth.

Two deep wells on my farms had given me a self-replenishing abundance of water and its extensive use at my Palaces shows how important it is not just for daily cleanliness, the care of the gardens, but also as a monthly source of income in its sales to my neighbours.

All these thoughts engaged my mind upon my return from London and came back into focus a number of times. There are those who say you cannot be friends with a slave. I disagree with that statement under a number of headings. One because it simply is not true. Many Masters are definitely fond of a slave or two and regard them as friends and confidants. Some slaves effectively run their Masters' businesses. The loss of the slave's personal and physical freedom does not mean that the bonds of human friendship disappear. They simply do not. I am not trying to define friendship. It is too hard to define.

Secondly, each and every one of us is a slave to something or other -- to our passions, our work, our family, to the pursuit of wealth or ideals or power. You name it; there is many a slavedom which has nothing to do with the loss of personal freedom.

I recognise the loyalty and servitude my slaves give me and I reciprocate with a number of measures in my Palaces such as the best of slave food and medical care to name but two. Admittedly that is in my own best interest, as a well-maintained slave will give many years of service, far beyond those of a poorly cared-for slave.

I also provide each slave with the best of training in obedience to me, so that once trained there is no need to re-visit the compounds, except for the very rare re-tuning caused by the forgetfulness of a slave who has accidentally not remembered to keep me, his Master, as the centre and focus of his being.

In all of these thoughts, it is to one group of slaves that my mind constantly returned and this cluster comprises the first twenty or so slaves whom I had acquired in Dahra. It was almost a reaffirmation that old friends are best.

As there was no common date of their acquisition from May to November of five years ago, I decided on a common anniversary date in the second week of May on which I would gather them to me and give them something of a surprise.

Most of my slaves, even Overseers and Assistant Overseers, never have actually the occasion to be inside the Lemon Palace proper except when I call them. The household slaves are certainly there, but apart from Flavio Pinelli, my chef, and Bob Conrad, my maître d'hôtel and the cousins Food and Drink, the other Overseers and Supervisors are rarely summoned to the Palace and if they are I meet them in the cool of the veranda.

As it is quite difficult for a Master to plan things without the key personnel being informed, I summoned Marko, my ice-cream maker, and Sevil, my sommelier, to walk with me in the gardens one afternoon to flesh out the tactics of my strategy.

`How do I organise a surprise meal without Flavio and Bob knowing?'

`Master, why would you want to do that?' Marko asked innocently.

`Because they are going to be the guests with some others at the meal.'

Marko smiled at the deception.

`How many, Master?' Sevil asked politely.

`Twenty in all. Twenty one, including myself' and I listed off the names.

`For slaves, Master, who are Overseers and Assistant Overseers, it would still have to be a simple meal, Master. Not even Flavio, Master, eats a Master's food and he is in the kitchens,' Marko said.

Marko did have a point. My slaves eat slave food which is principally a large and nutritious, if somewhat bland, slave-biscuit and a daily bowl of soup made from the vegetables growing that week on the farms. A dinner could not be in the accepted and traditional sense, but would have to be adapted to our own parameters. A question of when in Dahra, in the company of slaves, doing as the Dahrans do.

`Master, if such a dinner is to be prepared in the Lemon Palace, Flavio, Bob, and Food and Drink simply cannot be there, if this is to be a surprise. May I respectfully suggest that from early on in the day they be sent to the Aloe Palace to prepare for a special dinner for Aziz al-Aziz's guests,' Sevil proposed.

An excellent idea, Sevil, an excellent idea,' I said and so it was that on that note that the tactics started, and if anyone asks what you two were talking about with me, for you, Marko, you were told to prepare a new ice-cream and you, Sevil, were told I want a stock-taking of the wine and spirit cellars, which in fact I do.'

`Yes, Master,' both said smiling at the subterfuge involved.

Our walk through the gardens had brought us to the far end of one of them and the noise of a turning water-wheel could be heard. As we came round a pergola, I stopped - the two slaves beside me having fallen very quiet.

The water-wheel was manned inside by the slave on permanent punishment, Nick Willet. His rapes and assaults on other slaves and on myself had placed him here.

I saw Marko take a half-step back. He knew the story well as indeed did every slave in the Palace. His own rape and torture before being enslaved must have come flooding back to him. This slave was not about to frighten him. However, what they did not know was of Willet's attack on myself and they would never know because I had Willet muted and half-gelded as a warning not just to him of my anger and power, but also as a warning to every slave in the Palace who might think of deliberately transgressing the rules of my establishments.

I put my hand on Marko's shoulder to reassure him and we walked forward until about ten paces from the water-wheel. Nick Willet must have sensed our presence more than hearing any slight noise that we made upon arrival, because his face was a combined expression of both surprise and fear on seeing me there.

He sprang from inside the slowly rotating water-wheel, the steel chain on his ankle clinking in the afternoon air, and prostrated himself half-way between the wheel and myself, his forehead touching the ground.

Turning to Sevil, I said `this is how I punish slaves who displease me.'

`Yes, Master.'

I was looking around the area and noticed that the patch of sand we were standing on was perfectly raked, as indeed were the flower beds which were freshly tended to and weeded. In this part of the gardens, there is a type of Buxus which thrives very well in sandy soils, and it was acting as a hedging around some of the flowerbeds. It was perfectly trimmed to a radius of about thirty feet out -- the limit of the steel chain, I guessed to myself. There is always also an amount of small weeds in any hot climate where there is also an abundance of water. No weeds were to be seen.

I walked over to the water meter beside the wheel, and tapping the glass, saw that the quota was ninety percent filled for the day. Another three-quarters of an hour would see the quota completed. At least the slave had been working all day on his routine.

I stood over the still prostate slave, `Get up. At display.'

The slave jumped to his feet and put his wrists behind his head.

His cock was at half-erection, not quite tumescent, but yet not quite flaccid. Obviously, even operating on one ball and its production of testosterone and semen, there was sufficient spunk to cause an erection.

I walked the few paces over to the low night shelter which was beside the water-wheel. His blanket was neatly folded on the wide bench which served as a bed. His drinking cup was upside down on the tin plate on which his two morning and evening biscuits would be placed by the Palace slave responsible.

Hope is the great life-line. Give a person hope, be he free or slave, and he has something to live for. Nick Willet was doing his best. I gave him a life-line.

`I will visit you again and decide where to have you work.'

Willet dropped to his knees in thanks.

Getting rid of the four Palace slaves for the specific day was easier than imagined once Sevil's idea was put into play.

The medical staff were told that that evening they would be dining separately in the Aloe Palace as guest's of Aziz al-Aziz, as the Master would have some twenty guests for dinner at the Lemon Palace, and two of the assistant chefs and some of Bob's more senior assistants were sent to the middle Palace to arrange matters. Aziz himself was delighted in an Arab way with the deception being unfolded. Jon Lundt, the elderly Swedish slave who acts as Head of Household at the Aloe Palace, informed my agricultural consultant and guest at the Aloe Palace, Graham Hodson, of the change, to which Graham replied, I was told, `Ah, that means for the first time ever I'll be dining at home this evening.'

My first twenty slaves -- my top Overseers and Assistant Overseers -- looked slightly bemused as they stood in the large salon of the Lemon Palace. Each had been individually told by Jake, my Palace Mercury to report for inspection there at seven in the evening, which was the usual time for the slaves to eat, and to be dressed in shorts, gold necklace and to carrying the sign of his authority, his opal fly-swish.

Normally, the slaves assemble in the courtyard of the Palace some minutes before the hour for their meal as it does take some minutes for the soup and biscuits to be distributed to hundreds of slaves even on the best organised of evenings.

However, Jake told me afterwards that a silence descended on the courtyard as the Overseers and Assistant Overseers came out of their quarters. Slaves like children are insatiably curious. It was not that they were showered and in their shorts as Overseers and Assistant Overseers would now normally be in my Palaces, but due to two facts -- first that each one was carrying his fly-swish, which they would normally not do at dinner-time, and second, all seemed to be heading for the Palace.

Now in the large salon, they stood more curious than anything else, bemused at their number being there.

I came in with Ben Trant at my side.

I called forward Sérgio Gonçalves, who helps Dr. Coelho in the surgery, and taking a fly-swish with a handle of white onyx from its case I gave it to him with the time-honoured command, `Serve me well'.

He had been the only Assistant Overseer present without his fly-swish. As he did not really oversee others in the surgery, it had never occurred to me that I should have given him one. The error was mine. His supervision was not of slaves but of an entire section of a multi-million pound surgery and its equipment.

The former limbo dancer was quite overcome. He had given me four and a half years good service and I had never really acknowledged his existence in public.

I could see Ben Trant withdraw reluctantly from the salon. He always loves to know what was going on. It was not for him to stay tonight. It was a night for the Master to be with the first of his own.

As Ben left, five slaves entered each bearing a silver salver with small glasses of unseasoned tomato-juice.

I took one and when all had theirs, I raised mine and gave the toast `Your health and long life'.

Pete Downings was the quickest on the uptake and responded `To the Boss's health and long life,' which was repeated in unison.

There was a stillness in the room as each of the Overseers and Assistants quietly sipped the juice.

`Undoubtedly, you are asking yourselves why you are here this evening. Well, tonight is the common anniversary of five years ago when the first ten of you came into my ownership. The others among you arrived a little later on in the year. But it is five years. Tonight I have invited you to eat your evening meal with me.'

Smiles were breaking out among the Overseers, and a couple raised their glasses again to that idea.

I saw a look of worry on Flavio's face.

`Do you not trust your staff, Flavio, to prepare a simple meal? Our usual medical guests this evening are eating at the Aloe Palace. There are only us here.'

Rolf who was beside Flavio gave him a good-natured jab on the arm.

`And all the fuss at the Aloe Palace today, Boss?' Bob queried.

`To ensure that four of you were out of the Palace for the day and it appears to have worked.'

Food and Drink had big grins on their faces, which I thought were still a bit flushed. This I put down to the excitement of their involvement.

`Shall we go in to dinner?' I asked as the slaves waiting with the salvers took the empty glasses.

One of the slaves went ahead and opened the double doors into the dining room.

The long table was laid out for twenty one, each place marked with a place-name, each placed marked with a nightlight candle floating in water, each side plate with its napkin, and three paces back behind each high-backed chair a slave in a white knee-length chiton with a black cincture.

I went to the head of the table and waited as each of my Overseers and Assistant Overseers found his place-name and seat.

To my left were Ross, Drink, Radek, Flavio, Vitali, Greg, Randy, Raoul, Komil and Jerzy. To my right were Yuriy, Food, Rolf, Dumi, Bob, Jess, Pete, Todd, Stan and Sérgio.

As I waited I noted the reactions of surprise and astonishment of my first slaves, as the waiting serving slaves stepped forward in unison at an almost unseen nod from Sevil, each pulling back a respective chair, so allowing their guest for the evening to sit down on his chair which was adjusted in under him.

Each of the Overseers and Assistant Overseers was relieved of his fly-swish and this was placed in front of him in the centre of the table the point towards me to acknowledge my ownership of each of them.

I was watching Bob in amusement as he scanned the settings of the table and cast glance after glance at Sevil who I saw on one occasion nodding back his head at Bob, as if to say `relax'.

Marko had run a menu by me during the day, as it is quite difficult to prepare a menu for those whose daily diet of food consists of slave-biscuits and a bowl of vegetable soup of whatever legumes might be in the gardens that week.

I smiled internally as the starter was served, which consisted of two slivers of slave-biscuit with two thin slices of lusciously ripe avocado -- plain and simple and without any vinaigrette which might have upset some stomachs.

Food and Drink were bursting to tell everyone of their day in the Aloe Palace and it was not long before they held the floor, talking nineteen to the dozen, one contradicting the other, the other completing the comments of the first.

As a thin vegetable minestrone-style soup was being served with croûtons of slave-biscuit, I asked Bob how his day was.

`Marvellous, Boss. I polished more silver more times, enough to shave in a knife's reflection, if I ever had a beard.'

The table laughed at his attempt at humour.

The serving slaves were topping up glasses with some non-alcoholic wines, as I said, `and you, Flavio?'

`Strange being in a smaller kitchen and with new staff, but we put together a great menu for the guests, but not half as good as the soup here.'

`But you enjoyed today?'

`More than you can know, Boss.'

`Well, let's think about doing it more often, Flavio.'

The table was strangely quiet when I said that and I could see that Jess Tollman was bursting to ask something and clearly not knowing if this was the right moment.

`Jess?'

My evening driver looked at me and up and down the table before speaking.

Boss, does this,' and he indicated the table with a flick of his wrist, and what you have said to Flavio mean that you are going to introduce some changes?'

`I think, Jess, I already have. Simple changes. This meal for instance once a year I should think.'

That brought smiles up and down the table. Slaves love the assurance of things to come.

The serving slaves had retrieved the empty soup dishes as we had been speaking and had put a plate finely chopped raw vegetables before each of us with a half a slave biscuit on each side plate.

Sevil,' I said turning to my sommelier who in fact was coordinating the serving for the evening, fill up the glasses and then take out the staff. I'll call you when I need you,' and I lifted up a silver bell which I had asked to be left on the table.

The serving slaves quickly filled up glasses with various juices of choice and retired closing the dining room doors. I waited until I heard the click of the latch-tongue in the door lock, before continuing on the line of conversation which Jess had started.

`Changes, Jess, yes. Some small, like for Sérgio here this evening. A yearly dinner, yes, if you wish. A long-term change as to the Buddy Foundation, which as you know will be my legal heir when I die. Some of you may know that it has three trustees, Josh Greene who is my lawyer, whom some of you may have seen here some time ago. He has only visited Dahra once. It is too hot for him. Aziz al-Aziz, whom you know, is the second trustee and he has only the interests of the Palaces at heart, and up to last week, my nephew Jack Tuttle as the third. Jack has now been replaced and I have appointed Richard Martin Black as the third trustee.'

But Boss,' Jess said, nothing really changes at the Buddy Foundation, does it? It is there to take care of us and the Palaces years and years down the line. That's what you said to me one time. Is that not it?'

`Yes, Jess, hopefully, years and years down the line as you say.'

I could perceive that unasked question in the eyes of various of the more clued-in Overseers. The question was part of their future and I felt that they deserved the truth.

`Richard Martin Black, the third trustee is my son.'

Yuriy was sipping from his glass and he put it down, looking quite intently at me.

`Boss, I didn't know that you had been married,' he commented diplomatically.

`No, Yuriy, I have never been married. I only discovered to my great surprise that I was a father less than two months ago. I have been shocked and delighted all at the one time. I have met my son in London since on my visits to the Bank for the monthly meeting. He is a fine young man.'

Bob Conrad raised his glass and surprised me by saying in a toast `To the Boss's son, Richard'

`To Richard,' echoed around the room.

`I don't know what he wants his future to be. I don't think he has decided yet. I shall invite him to Dahra one day, I hope.'

I saw Komil and Todd nodding at that comment.

`Now can we get on with this meal, as I have a little surprise for you later on and it may take a bit of time to unfold. So let's press on, here.'

I rang the silver bell and Sevil was immediately opening the dining-room doors behind me.

`Sevil, fill up these glasses. We have some thirsty diners this evening.'

`Yes, Master,' he said, hand-signalling in the serving staff.

Marko topped off the meal with a brown-bread ice-cream sitting in a redcurrant coulis. It was delightful and drew quite a smile from Flavio for his favourite sous-chef.

After the meal, we went into the large salon again, which had been set out with a series of divans in a semi-circle facing the large six by eight foot plasma screen on the far wall.

Tommy Saunders, who manages my projects with the Buddy Foundation, and his assistant Geoff Masters where standing `at rest' as we went in.

`All ready, Tommy? Geoff?'

`Yes, Master,' were the joint replies.

`Sevil, leave those fruit juices here. We will serve ourselves.'

`Yes, Master.'

`Now, close the doors and dismiss the staff for the night when all is cleared up outside. Some of the glasses and the forks on the table were not lined up properly. Your Overseer will determine your punishment in the morning,' I said looking down at Bob Conrad.

`Yes, Master,' he said humbly as he closed the sliding door of the salon.

Turning to the assembled Overseers, I said `you all know about the Buddy Foundation projects I think, with the exception of Jerzy and Sérgio here. But Tommy and Geoff will give us the latest update.'

For the next two hours, twenty tapes of six minutes each were played and shown on the plasma screen, about each of the Overseers families, or in seven of their cases where they had no family, about the school where they had attended.

In each case, the Foundation had been doing something - an unexpected contract here, a scholarship for a family member there, a new job becoming available elsewhere. In Stan Mercer's case, he had had no home, so St. Michael's, the orphanage where he was reared in Dunedin got some new supplies and a Chair of Geology in his name at the University got its continuing annual endowment. Six of the other Assistant Overseers had benches put up in parks or swings in playgrounds or parks near to the schools they had attended, however briefly. Overall, it cost less than a three quarters of a million euro when Geoff had showed me the figures.

Poor Food and Drink who had been enslaved from a nomadic Mehri tribe somewhere on the Arabian Peninsula and had never really known freedom hugged each other in the darkened salon as they saw the Rahaman playground named after them in a primary school in Dahra. A playground I thought was a most suitable item to commemorate two former roguish imps.

When it was all over, there were some damp eyes and a number of quietly murmured `Thanks, Boss.'

As we were getting up from the divans, Yuriy surprised me by saying, as others were milling around listening, `Boss, I see that Yurikin is very happy now with Irina and Sergeiy. There is no need for any further videos, Boss. My life and my heart is fully here in Dahra and nowhere else.'

`Is there any reason, why you say that Yuriy?' I asked, a little puzzled, as I knew the strong bond of attachment between Yuriy and his now handsome young son, Yurikin.

`Did you notice Sergeiy's hand in the video?'

I shook my head, and Yuriy put his right hand over his heart with the fingers of the hand separated.

`His first and second fingers were not crossed, Boss. He is no longer sending me a message. He's telling me that all is well. I always trusted Sergeiy Ivanovich's opinion in the Spetnaz and I trust it now. No more videos, Boss.'

`Fine, Yuriy, you're absolutely sure? You are my right hand, you know that. You just have to confirm that to Tommy and there will be no further update. And if you ever want one, you just have to ask,' and I went over and put my hand on his shoulder.

`Absolutely sure, Boss. Absolutely.'

As the evening drew to a close there were individual thanks from my first and closest slaves. Food and Drink came up as a pair and each laid a head on each of my shoulders as they wrapped their arms about me. They said no words. There were tears in their eyes, and hugging them close, I rubbed the backs of their necks as they hugged tighter and tighter.

Of the other slaves, Todd Allen was the most emotional. I had seen him wiping away the tears as he saw his former wife and three now young teenage children succeed in her T&R Diner business and in their school jackets.

`You have every reason to be proud of them, Todd. They are all a credit to you.'

`Rose would not have been able to do everything she has done without your help, Boss.'

`She was already on the way to success, Todd. She would have had no need either of yourself or the Buddy Foundation. We both just helped her. You fathering the children; the Foundation with some cash -- nothing more.'

`Boss, I am genuinely sorry if I have caused you any worry or trouble.'

I looked at that most honest and sincere of former truck-drivers and I knew why some families are great and others are not. Pulling him close, I held him in my arms.

`Not for a moment, Todd, not for a moment.'

I remember the very first evening and dinner with my Supervisor slaves with fondness.

The end of Nesim Murat's period of training in the five compounds was something of an exceptional circumstance. He came through his training without having lost his virginity. He had gone into the compounds an anal virgin and had come out the same way. As I had ordered, so had it been done.

Both Mirzan and Vaz had come to present the slave to me. That in itself was an indication of the importance that they attached to the slave or to the effort that he had put into his training. I did not for a moment think that it was otherwise, as had happened previously, when both Supervisors had presented themselves jointly when they were unable to agree among themselves on a particular slave joining the general slave population due to lack of success or effort.

Nesim Murat was standing at rest' in the slave quarters and as I entered I heard someone say, The Master', and Nesim and others snapped to stand `at display'. He had a perfect back and that was what caught my eye immediately. It dropped in a perfect isosceles triangle from two well-muscled shoulders to a tapered waist whose point was his coccyx just above the crack in his buttocks. His skin glowed with health and his hands clasped at the back of his head as he awaited my inspection were gold on the black of his hair. His arms themselves showed biceps of which any slave could be proud. The perfection of his body dropped from his buttocks to his ankles. Not a trace of a single hair was to be seen to spoil the smoothness of his skin.

I walked around to his front to find that he was at full erection and his penis was almost vertical to the floor of the slave quarters. His circumcised mushroom head was full and purple and in the slit of his urethra gleamed a pearl of precum, the penile sign of anticipation of better things to come.

`Well, Vaz, Mirzan, what do you think? Has this slave progressed well through the training compounds?'

`Yes, Master. He has been one of the best. Though he is small, what he lacks in height he makes up for in guts and stamina. He has progressed well,' Vaz said.

Also, Master,' Mirzan interjected, he is still a virgin. Either Vaz or I checked him each morning that he was still unbroken and tight and each morning, we would put a little Aloe sap in his rectum to keep him nice and soft during his training. That sap, Master, was put in with no more than a little finger,' and he held up his to indicated the smallness of the object inserted. `Would you like to inspect his tightness now, Master.'

`No, Mirzan, that inspection will be a very private one between just Nesim and myself tonight. Isn't that right, Nesim?' and I put my fingers on his chin to adjust his eye level so that they were looking directly at mine.

He moistened his lower lip in his nervousness and said, `Yes, Master, tonight.'

I noticed that he now understood some English.

`There is no need to be nervous, Nesim. I have waited for you and this will be your night more than mine. I may have the right to take your virginity, but you have earned my respect in keeping yourself for me.'

I looked at Vaz and Mirzan who signalled their agreement.

Vaz said, `Have you given any thought, Master, to what Nesim should do at the Palaces?'

`No, Vaz, what can you suggest?'

`In the fourth compound, Master, Vitali is more and more taken up with the sex technique classes. He is giving a lot of time to each individual tuition which means that, at times, he is hard pressed for his other duties with Ivan in the fourth compound. Both Mirzan and I think that Nesim would be a very good substitute for Vitali.'

Standing close to Nesim, I could feel the heat radiating from his body. This was the slave who knew no English or Arabic to speak of a month ago.

`Let him work with Ivan for a month then, Vaz, and see how he gets on. He will have to take double the language classes.'

`Side by side with Ivan for a month, Master, an excellent idea, and Vitali can do what Nesim can't,' Mirzan chirped in as diplomatic as ever.

The drop of precum was glistening on the tip of Nesim's penis. I ran my finger over it and it was almost viscous it was so thick. Bringing its moisture to my lips it tasted sweet, and then I put my finger on Nesim's lips and inserted it into his mouth. I felt the warmth and wetness of his lips around my finger and then his tongue touched the tip of my finger, and not more than that, as if he had passed some forbidden boundary and had immediately drawn back.

`Tonight, Nesim, you will have your wish,' I said as I withdrew my finger.

I had to leave him then as another matter was in need of my attention.

End of Chapter 9

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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