The Time Line by Gerry Taylor This is the tenth 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. ============= 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/ ===========
Chapter 10 -- Scepticism
In some matters of life, it is well to be possessed of a heavy dose of disbelief. Oh, I do believe in many things and belief sustains me in both my personal and business life, but beware of those who undergo instant conversions particularly when their fortunes are reversed. Why is it never that such conversions take place when they are in the full bloom and flush with success and opportunity?
Nick Willet, my rapist, was one such case. I had summoned his former buddies and those whom he had assaulted to be assembled at the water-wheel where he was being punished. I left them there stewing for over an hour. When I finally decided to arrive, the seven slaves were all lined up and well-presented as they should have been for any inspection by their Master.
As I arrived, the line went `at display' with their hands at the back of their necks, their chests out and their ankles about two feet apart. All of this is to give a Master total access to their bodies as his property.
I walked down the line without saying a word and then round the back of the line. Seven fine sets of buttocks were on display, slightly clenched to show off the backside at its best. I let my fingers run down each back from shoulder blades to their cracks, and when I came back round the front, several were sporting erections while the remainder were half-tumescent.
A slave who does not enjoy the confidence of his Master will always feel at a disadvantage and guilty about something or other. It is a fact of slave ownership.
`Has any one of you got anything to say to me?'
My words hung in the air like the motes of dust I could see floating in the afternoon sunshine. These slaves only had one thing in common apart from my ownership and that was Nick Willet.
I was clearly not questioning my ownership of them and I let them work out the logic by a process of elimination.
Fausto, the Portuguese slave, was the first to speak.
`Sorry, Master, if any of us has displeased you.'
`And how do you think you have?'
There were various glances up and down the line.
We have visited Nick at the water-wheel, Master,' a second slave ventured, but it was always after work.'
I stood in front of the slave and let him go on.
`We did not speak to him, Master, but just sat there and spoke among ourselves, so that he could hear what was going on in the Palaces.'
Clever, I thought to myself. Speaking to the slave was out, so they just spoke to each other in his presence.
`And what was so interesting in the Palaces that a slave being punished had to hear?'
`Everything, Master. The smallest of things. When no one talks to you, everything you hear is important.'
`But that is not all, is it?'
The slaves looked nervous.
`They are only crumbs, Master. We bring crumbs to ....'
`To what?'
The slave was blinking in apprehension, `...to his mouse, Master. It is only a small mouse.'
`You gave him a pet and now you feed it! You think the slave needs to be entertained while he is being punished.'
`No, Master. Mousey just arrived one day and Nick fed him part of his biscuit, and Mousey stayed. Nick is very gentle with animals.'
Maybe gentle with animals, but a rapist of at least eight at my Palaces including myself, though this last fact was not publicly known.
`Where is this mouse?'
Nick pointed to the hut where he slept each night. I noticed a cloth, more of a rag, covering something on the ground at the end of the bench. I picked up the cloth and actually gave a start. Underneath it was a small cage made of palm fronds and inside the cage, a Dahran mouse. They are small little brown things and this one had its twitching inquisitive nose stuck outside the cage through two of the openings in the lattice of fronds.
I turned to face the slave and he looked fearful. He had lost a testicle the last time he annoyed me, and I read that message as clear as if it had been printed in bold type on his face.
`You are keeping a pet here?' I said in a cold voice.
The slave looked at me and nodded, and then suddenly he ran to the side of the water-wheel, put his hand down and picked up a camel-cane and ran back to me putting it at my feet. He looked up at me from his kneeling position, and with a finger wrote a word in the sand at my feet.
`Lonely'.
That word did in fact summarise his punishment. He had no physical voice of his own to speak with others even if he wanted and they were there to listen to him. The other slaves were forbidden to speak to him as part of his punishment.
The slave got back to his feet and bending forward grasped the back of his knees, the standard position for receiving a flogging by camel-cane.
I looked at him and breathed deeply, `Stand up, Willet, there is nothing in the rules which says you can't keep a mouse, whether during a punishment or not.'
The slave got up, and I noticed that his eyes were watering up.
`What's the matter with you?'
The slave dropped on one knee and wrote a word in the sand.
`Name'
I had said his name, and as Ben Trant, my secretary, has frequently reminded me, a slave is happy when the Master remembers his name.
`Willet, I remember you very well. I remember your name very well and will do so for many a year.'
The slave looked fearful.
Fausto said, `We know, Master, that Nick can be very rough before he has sex and even while he has sex, but afterwards, Master, he is as gentle and kind as a lamb. He is! Master, he is,' and the slave looked at the ground as if he had said too much at that mouthful.
`Master, we are sorry if we have done something wrong,' Fausto said.
`I am surprised at you, Fausto. Did you not think of asking me first? That slave is not to be entertained after what he did to you, and I have no doubt, to various others as well.'
`Sorry, Master, but we have forgiven him. Everyone should learn how to forgive someone like Nick. He never knew any better. No one ever taught him how to behave any better. Now, he knows better and he behaves better. He does, Master.'
I felt that Fausto Lopes, a double murderer before coming to Dahra, was actually talking of himself.
`And the flowerbeds and hedges, and the sand and paths?'
`He does that all himself each morning before he starts on the water-wheel, and he has never missed his quota'.
`Not even once, Master, not even once,' another of the seven chimed in.
That I knew negatively. Had he missed his quota of water each day, I would have been informed.
`What else?'
The slaves sort of looked down at their chests and diverted their eyes from any outward glance.
`Well?' I said to the middle slave in the line-up.
`Nick doesn't jerk off, Master, so the last one of us to leave any evening....we jerk him off. It only takes a couple of pulls because he is always on the edge of coming. That's all, Master. Sorry, if we have broken your orders.'
I looked at the seven and thought how strange that all, who had suffered under his rough sex and rapes, were now visiting their rapist in his open prison. It was an odd situation.
Fausto looked at me and took a pace forward and kissed the back of my hand. It was an act both of subservience to me and of thanks for not having changed the status quo of their little arrangement with Nick Willet. The other slaves followed suit and one my one took my hand to kiss it.
I still remained sceptical of Nick Willet. Time might improve my opinion of him. The remembered hurt of his rape to both my body and my mind would scarcely help his cause.
`Well, don't forget the mouse when you go down to the al-Kadir property today. Your punishment here is over.'
Nick Willet shed tears as he kissed my feet.
At the beginning of June, I received the yearly invite that I dreaded most -- the invitation to Rashid al-Akhri's birthday party. This year I calculated he would be fifty five, and this year again I would give him my two bolts of Mohair. At least in this I am consistent.
There was no real way I could avoid his invitation. One of my best friends in Dahra, his brother Tariq, and most likely all his other brothers with all of whom I get on famously, would also be there. But Rashid is as cruel and calculating in his persona and personality as any individual you are ever likely to meet - truly a figure of the night where social graces fade into total darkness.
At his birthday parties though, to be fair to the man, he is always on his best behaviour surrounded as he is by his wives and children and the extended families of his brothers.
One thing, I had noticed at the last two birthday parties, was that several of the guests, including some of his brothers, were not just driven there by a driver, but they kept a body servant with them during the evening. The servant, and mainly slaves I say from the bracelets on their ankles, would not be physically close during the evening like a bodyguard, but as an attendant - there in case of need.
I therefore told Yuriy that he would accompany me and that Jess would be our driver. Yuriy Obov keeps himself extraordinarily fit and at thirty two years of age has that maturity of body which is stunning in military and ex-military personnel. This fitness, of course, maintained by the on-the-spot keep fit programme of the Kazakh Special Forces -- the Kazakh Spetnaz.
`White T-shirt, pants, necklace and fly-swish,' were my summarised instructions.
`Yes, Boss,' was his immediate reply.
If anything, this year's birthday party was larger than the previous ones. I lost count during a mental attempt to calculate the family members. There was also a number of business contacts with their several wives and this confused the count even more before I abandoned it -- but definitely over a hundred and twenty.
My present of two bolts of Mohair was graciously received, but was small potatoes among the jewellery presents from his own family members, and definitely out-leagued by the four top of the range SUVs -- one from each of the brothers -- which was this year's vehicle of choice.
Four slaves were on hand outside Rashid's opulent residence to drive the SUVs around the courtyard, at what I thought were speeds a little too high and too fast, with children milling around. But there were no accidents, at least, not while I was looking.
I lost sight of Yuriy early on in the evening, though on two occasions, I saw him on the sidelines of the evening's eating and entertainment, looking at me and then nodding as much as to say, `I'm still here.'
After the presentation of the brothers' SUVs to Rashid out in the courtyard behind his Palace, we all came back into the residence, but it was clear as in previous years that the party was winding down, and as first the business guests and the non-family members such as some of the neighbours, started to bid their adieus, I too took my cue and departed as soon as local Dahran protocol would decently allow.
As we drove back to the Lemon Palace, Jess had asked if I wanted some music, and as usual, I took his hint and said `You choose a station' which gave Yuriy and myself a selection of background country and western.
I noticed that Yuriy was particularly quiet, not that he speaks ever out of turn or too much, but he was very quiet and I said so.
`Sorry, Boss, I was just thinking of my good fortune, in having you as my Master.'
I looked at him. But I know that feeling every time I have visited Rashid's home. There is a subdued sense of violence and anger and viciousness there which is quite uncomfortable.
`What they gave you nothing to eat?' I said trying to raise the moment.
`A small slave-biscuit and some figs, Boss, but it was not that,' and he looked at me a little strangely, and with that I pressed the button on the seat between us to raise the glass partition between Jess the driver and ourselves.
`What's on your mind, Yuriy?'
`Boss, if I were to ask you a favour....if it were not to cost too much...?'
`Yuriy, spit it out. What?'
`Did you notice any of the drivers of the SUVs?'
`No, not really. I saw they were slaves and they did drive around that courtyard too fast.'
`Yes, Boss. They were told to -- to show off the vehicles. It's about one of the drivers, Boss. I recognised him when he got out of the SUV he was driving when you all went back in. He recognised me as well.'
`Is that good or bad? From where? When did you know him?'
I knew him from the army during the last of the Afghan skirmishes. He was in charge of a motorised brigade. His name, Boss, is Sabir Temirov. Lieutenant-Colonel Sabir Temirov. They used call him Ironman' because temir in Kazakh means iron.'
I was looking at Yuriy as he was speaking and he was studying carefully some region in the area of his knees.
`Did you speak to him?'
`Yes, Boss, when I recognised him. He looked frightened when I did, Boss. A former brigade officer of the Kazakh army looking frightened!'
There was anger in his voice.
`What do you want to do, Yuriy?' I said quietly.
Boss, if I had the money, I would buy him for you,' and he straightened an imaginary crease in his pants' leg. He was always a great mechanic and would even help on jobs that his own men had difficulty finishing.'
`Well then, Yuriy, let's see if he can be bought.'
He reached across the divide of the backseat and placed his hand on mine.
`Boss, I'm running on empty. I have nothing else to offer you. I know no more tricks to make you happy, neither in bed nor out on the farms.'
`Yuriy, what a thing to say! You never ask for anything. You have my full confidence. You and the other Overseers now even choose my slaves for me. As for new tricks in bed, well, let's leave that for others. As long as you keep Radek happy in bed, that is all that should be important to you at bed-time.'
The desert was speeding by. The wheels making a distant low hum on the road back to the Lemon Palace.
`Temirov, you say.'
`Yes, Boss, Sabir Temirov.'
`Let's see what can be done' and he squeezed my hand again as I looked out at the sands disappearing back in the distant horizons. Yuriy was quiet for the rest of the journey.
I have always drawn the line at paying for slaves by credit card. It seems so antiseptic and impersonal or some such thing, but I have not a single objection in the world in ordering one by e-mail or phone or any other form of modern technology. The following day when in the office, on a secure and encrypted line, I spoke to Mustafa ben-Mustafa at al-Mera. I pointed out that I did not want to be identified as the buyer of Sabir Temirov; that perhaps he could try and buy him as a mechanic for a prospective party.
`Have you a price in mind, Sir Jonathan?'
`At best.'
`At best, it will be then. I shall inform Overseer Downings when the purchase is completed.'
Mustafa is always like that. There is no slave that he cannot buy. He always knows the angle to take on a purchaser's behalf and what lure to put on the fishing hook to entice the seller. It is little wonder that the House of Mustafa has lasted the eight and a half centuries it has `serving the servant needs of Dahra' as its brochure understatingly says with its selling methods passing from scion to scion.
It was only when I had put down the phone that I asked myself how did he know that Pete Downings was my Head of Household at the Lemon Palace? There are really so few long-term secrets within the borders of Dahra.
Jack Tuttle's personnel review had come up. He had now been five years with the Bank in Dahra and nephew of mine or not, he was entitled to get an objective appraisal of his work done to date. It was unusual that he had spent the full five years at one Branch, and an overseas one at that.
Wish me luck, sir,' he had said as he prepared to go to London. We had all sent on our positive comments on his performance and I noticed that the various managers had put in very few negatives. I'm so nervous at being examined at Head Office, I have collywobbles in the pit of my stomach just thinking about it.'
Just be cool and calm, Jack, and don't wish for too much, because you might just get what you wish for,' I commented. You have worked very hard here.'
`What if they want to move me, sir?'
`You have a young family and roots here in Dahra. Personnel always gives fair warning.'
Jack's troubles were minor in the scheme of things. If he got promotion, his troubles would be major as he would have to face a future without his and Fiona's Scottish slaves whom he could not transport outside the borders of Dahra.
On the day of my talk with Jack Tuttle, as the Rolls pulled into the courtyard I saw Pete Downings, my Head of Household, talking to Jake Peoples, the Palace messenger, whilst they were waiting for me.
A thought occurred to me.
`Faisal, did you flash your lights as you came down the Western Road.'
`Yes, Sir Jonathan. As usual.'
I smiled to myself. This was an advance warning system devised by my previous Head of Household, Aziz al-Aziz. He used have in place to be seen by a `spy' on the roof of the Palace, so that he would never be surprised by my arrival. It was obviously still in operation.
`Hello, Jake, how is the Palace roof this afternoon?' I said upon alighting from the Rolls.
He blushed.
`You couldn't have seen me, Master, from that distance. Could you?'
Pete and I laughed at his confusion.
`No, Jake, just putting two and two together, seeing the pair of you here just as I am arriving,' I said and indicated to him to be off.
`Boss, the doctors most likely will be late eating with you this evening.'
`Something serious?'
`Yes and no. The new slave Sabir Temirov arrived today and at his medical, Dr. Coelho saw that he had a large double hernia. Dr. Fournier is operating now and Dr. Coelho is on anaesthetics.'
`Randy must be in his element.'
Randy Tait is in charge of the surgery and still after five year's Pete Downings's one and only partner.
`You have no idea, Boss. Randy is taking it more seriously than a heart transplant.'
`Keep me informed.'
`Yes, Boss. The slave's file is on your desk.'
It was not until I had cleaned up after the day at the office and come down to the study to catch up on correspondence and bill signing, that I got around to reviewing the file.
The invoice was for a mere seventeen thousand euro. A good slave would be fifty per cent more than that if the slave had any talent at all.
Then I spotted the note clipped to the back of the invoice in Mustafa's fine calligraphy (`sold as is', by the head of the household, on the Master's instructions. Medical condition not revealed prior to sale), which would explain the low price accepted.
Typical of Rashid al-Akhri! Always something strange or concealed in the background or in the intent; always trying to pull a fast one. I just breathed deeply and continued my reading of the file.
Thirty nine years old. Young for a Lieutenant-Colonel at thirty six, a light colonel as they say, but then maybe life expectancy was not high on the Afghan border. A degree in mechanical engineering paid for by the Army. Married and divorced. No children. Sold to slavers with five other soldiers three years previously by his own colonel. Not much in a file for thirty nine years of life!
Gianni was at my side with his folder of bills, and I started on them and waded rather than worked my way through them until Cal Thorson put his head round the study door and said `What? No one for dinner this evening?'
As it turned out, Graham Hodson arriving late from the al-Kadir property joined us as well, and I suggested that we eat in the cool of the veranda as there was a pleasant breeze blowing steadily from the North.
For some minutes, Bob, my head of serving, was busy directing his three acolyte assistants for the evening and Sevil, my sommelier, in shifting the dinner service outside.
The sky was superbly clear with its rising myriads of glittering stars. The small floating candles that Bob had lit all around the veranda area, coupled with the indirect lighting of the courtyard, made for an inviting setting for the evening meal.
Flavio had done small palm-sized tortillas españolas of nothing more than boiled new potatoes and egg, seasoned with parsley. A selection of salads and early summer vegetables from the gardens completed the plate which was ideal for such an evening.
Marko produced a selection of blackcurrant and redcurrant sorbets, and with the cool of the evening, it was a perfect balance to a light meal.
As we were finishing, both the two doctors arrived chatting between themselves.
Ah, Jonathan, sorry for the late arrival. A long and tedious procedure, but all is well. The patient is asleep and hopefully won't awaken until morning,' Yves said, if our anaesthetist has done his job well,' clapping Miraldo on the shoulder.
Bob was already setting a further two places at the table, and Sevil was at Yves' side immediately with the choice of red wine for the evening. Yves and my sommelier seem to agree the selections for a week at a time.
It's not like you, Jonathan, to buy such a damaged slave,' Miraldo said. I can only remember a couple of such purchases.'
`It was a special request. But you were able to fix him up? He's a mechanic.'
Yves head shot up, `he's more than a mechanic, Jonathan. He was military, an engineer, and has perfect French. I was quite surprised. Very good accent, and perfect English as well.'
I was surprised. There was nothing about his languages in Sabir Temirov's file.
`How did you find out he spoke French?' I asked.
Ah, Jonathan, when I'm working on a patient I tend talk to myself at times in French, and I think I must have said ne bouges plus', not to move or some such thing as I was palpating his groin area before we put him under, when he responded to my surprise with `merci, docteur. Je suis mal en point, n'est-ce pas? Je ne bougerai pas.' He was indeed in a bad way with that very serious double hernia. But no longer!'
And Yves raised his glass of red wine to toast the company of the meal and to Miraldo Coelho in particular.
In the running of a large establishment such as the Lemon Palace, there are now tried and trusted rules laid down and in place. The Head of Household has first `option' so to speak on any new slave coming into the Palace's schedules, and then the Head of Stables and so on down the line, but slaves with known skills are referred to those who might have need of them.
It was some two weeks after that conversation with the doctors that I was over at Stan Mercer's office with Graham Hodson looking over his design for the next section's planting of the al-Kadir property. If anything, Stan is structured, and the chess-like layout of the al-Kadir property on the large map on the wall of his office would in time change colour as one area after another in each section was first laid with irrigation pipes and then planted with the kiwifruit plants.
As we were talking a slave arrived with a manual in his hand and seeing myself there he made a full obéisance on his knees, his forehead touching the floor of the office.
I did not recognise the slave who looked to be in his late thirties and of a wiry build, and I took him to be one of the latter acquisitions by the Overseers. While I had seen these latter slaves all very briefly at the two slave centres, their faces were a blur with one or two exceptions.
Stan saw the manual in the slave's hand and held out his to receive it. The slave immediately went `at display'.
`A new assistant, Stan?'
`Boss, this is Sabir, recently arrived. Pete Downings sent him across to me when he got through the medicals.'
`Ah!' I said and looked at the naked slave.
`At rest.'
It was morning so we were speaking in English.
`Do you understand me?'
`Yes, Master, perfectly.'
I looked at Stan who was smiling to himself as he flicked through the manual in his hand.
`Sabir? Is it?'
`Yes, Master.'
Graham interrupted saying, `Jonathan, I must be on my way. I want to take a look at the work being done in this last section,' and he headed out to his waiting sand-buggy.
The slave had replied and his English was almost without accent.
`There is nothing in your file about you knowing English.'
`Master, I was never asked. They merely gave us basic command training at the slave centre in English and Arabic.'
`What languages do you speak?'
`Master, I can speak half a dozen or so. Kazakh, Russian, Uzbeki, Turkmen, Arabic, English, French, German, and some of the local dialects of the tribes of Kazakhstan.'
`That's eight and dialects. In that order of fluency?' I asked looking both at him and at Stan.
`What have you had him doing here, Stan?'
Checking the running of the water-pumps, Boss,' he said holding up the manual in his hand. If they were functioning before, the first three are humming now.'
And looking at the slave, he queried `And the last pump?'
`Sir, it is now working perfectly. A little oil was needed. That was all.'
`You have work for him then, Stan?'
`Indeed, and if I don't, I will find work for him, Boss. The next thing will be the mechanical overhaul of Juan Luis's solar panels and the automatic shutters. No shortage of work.'
I could hear a political statement being made that the slave was now in Stan's property section and would not be given up without either a direct command of mine or a fight with the other Overseers.
`The doctors gave you a clean bill of health?'
`Yes, Master, the last stitches came out two days ago and I have to go back for a check-up in under two weeks. I am ready for work.'
I liked his attitude. I could not make up my mind about the former Lieutenant-Colonel.
`Come walk with me, Sabir,' and I nodded to Stan and the others on his team who had been listening in on the conversation.
`First, speak with my secretary who will complete your file. If you have talents and skills, I want to know about them. Do you know why?'
`No, Master, I am not sure why.'
Pointing to the bracelet on his ankle, I said, `there is no escape from Dahra. So do me and yourself a favour and put escape out of your mind. You will have been shown the execution video.'
He nodded confirmation.
`This is not me speaking but a statement of fact from the security forces -- no slave has ever escaped from Dahra. Secondly, if you are put to good use here at my Palaces, you will be content in a way, maybe not completely, but in a way. Thirdly, I think your training in the military will help you to take orders and in time, you will be able to give them.'
`Yes, Master,' the slave said quietly as he padded along by my side.
`Do you want to ask me any question?'
He looked at me in surprise.
Not just now, Master, if I may keep them for another time?' he half-queried and seemed to smile. But I would like to thank you for the medical treatment I have received.'
`And the haircut in the beauty parlour, by the looks of it,' and I pointed to his pubic hair in the Palace's style of a mere two inches of bush.
`Yes, Master, run by the two Russians.'
`You know those two practically invented that work for themselves?'
`No, Master.'
`Like them, see what you can invent here over the next months as you work for Overseer Stan and then we shall speak.'
`Yes, Master. I will. But there is one thing I would like to know.'
`What is it?'
`Did Yuriy Obov have anything to do with you buying me?'
`He mentioned your name.'
`Just my name, Master?'
`Just your name. In my Palaces, my Overseers and slaves know me and I know my Overseers and many of my slaves. They do not have to spell things out.'
`Master, I have not seen Yuriy Obov yet, but I would like to thank him for mentioning my name.'
We had arrived at the steps of the veranda leading into the Lemon Palace.
When you have finished giving all your details, and I mean all your details, to Ben, my secretary, just follow the Long Mile Road west' and I pointed in the direction of the road which links my properties, and you will find Overseer Yuriy in the grounds of the Aloe Palace where he is my Head of Stables.'
`Master, thank you. You trust me to give all my details as you call them and you trust me to walk to another property?'
`Yes, is there a problem? Are you not to be trusted?'
`No, Master, there is no problem. I am just surprised that I am to be trusted so soon at your Palace. You are just different to my previous owner.'
I looked at him and, under my breath, commented `I would hope so,' leaving in the air my agreement with his remark but not indicating with which part of it I agreed more fully.
I put out my hand and with a finger pulled down the slave's lower lip, Cal Thorson's work gleamed out white and bright.
`Thank you as well for the teeth and for the treatment of my eye,' and he pointed to his left eye.
I passed no comment.
Jake Peoples had come out of the Palace on hearing my voice.
`Find Ben and have him bring out this slave's file for amendment.'
`Yes, Boss, immediately.'
`I have a gut feeling, Sabir, that you and I are going to get on. Do not ever give me cause to have you brought in for retraining. You have thirty days to find a buddy here at the Palace. If not, I will find you one.'
`Thank you, Master. That has been explained to me,' the slave said and I left him standing in the sun.
End of Chapter 10 =========== Contact: e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/ w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories If not on the YahooGroups mailing list, simply send a blank email to Erotic_gay_stories-subscribe@yahoogroups.com 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