This is the 1st chapter of The Kazakh's Story, a novel about slavery and gay sex in modern times.
Key words: authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, re-training, and submission.
This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its characters are copyright, and private to and reserved by the author. No reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.
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The Kazakh's Story
Chapter 1 -- Morning
The Palace is in a turmoil. I can see that.
Since early morning Ahmed whom I know to be a sort of head of the staff here has been issuing orders left right and centre. Reminds me of an old Major I used know in the Kazakh Peoples' Army. Not just only orders to the kitchen staff, order to the household staff, and he has been running up to the Master's bedroom with files all morning. I presume it is to the bedroom because at weekends the Master does not rise until around nine o'clock. Yes, something is definite up and in the wind and its not just my cock.
My Master, of all of two months, is some sort of government official in this Gulf state wherever I am. I know it is on the Gulf because, it is hot, it is desert and I have smelt the sea far away when the wind blows from the East. I have always had a great sense of smell. And it must be around the Gulf area because the stars are more or less the same but I can see more on them on the horizon that I ever saw in my beautiful Kazakhstan.
I am generally ignored this morning because my usual job is to look after two of the Master's beautiful prize horses. Though in all my time here of two months, he has never had the time to come down to ride them. These beasts are magnificent, one a fine chestnut coloured stallion, the older a gelded two-year old if my judgement of his teeth are correct. They are like quiet little mice with me and know the smell now of my naked body.
No slave in this place wears clothes. The only thing on me is a silver coloured bracelet on my right ankle. It is not aluminium, iron or steel that I know for sure. It may be an amalgam of metals but is seamless and impossible to take off. It is the bracelet of a slave.
Uh, uh. Trouble on the horizon. Here comes Ahmed. He has no language I know, and I do not know Arabic apart from some fifteen commands. He snaps his fingers at me and clearly I have to follow him. I have never been in the Palace itself and am soon lost with the number of doors and passageways we go through, and now up a back stairs.
Now there is marble under my feet instead of the rough stone of the back stairs. Ahmed stops at a door - one of many - knocks and waits. He has not to wait long. There is a shout from inside to come in.
The Master is sitting in a dressing robe at a table surrounded by files. Ahmed bows from the waist and I as a slave prostrate myself in the obedience position as I call it with my head on the floor, my hands beside my head.
There is rapid fire Arabic between the two and Ahmed gives me a touch of his fly-swish to get up. I assume the display position. It is only the second time that I have seen the Master up close, though I am not looking directly at him.
He must be in his late thirties, jet black hair and the usual small beard that Arabs favour. I really do not know him, other than I think his name is Tariq. It is a problem not to have the language and nobody here speaks either Kazakh or Russian. I should have learned more English at school, but who would have thought that I would have needed it in a situation life this. I would have laughed at the thought.
The Master was now getting up and coming over to me. There were obvious signs of approval. He looked happy. I am an expert at reading body language, after all I was in the Kazakh special forces, where the rise and fall of officers and men was meteoric in our fight against the incursions of the Taliban. Fail and you were out. Success and it was all smiles.
The Master was circling me like I was a statue, touching my shoulders and waist. He comes to the front and lifts my organ, a slight squeeze, a slight squeeze again, and I can feel myself getting hard. I have not come in two days, basically because I have not had five minutes, that's all I would need, to myself.
But the Master is not interested in getting me hard, just to see the reaction of my organ. He is now on the phone and speaking the English language. That I do know. He is smiling and he is happy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Ahmed has the beginnings of a smile, the first one of the day that I have seen on his face.
There are more rapid-fire instructions in Arabic to Ahmed who bows and with a flick of his fly swish indicates that I have to follow him.
We descend now down the main stairs which is carpeted and tickles the soles of my bare feet. We stand outside this pair of double doors. Ahmed put my arms firmly to my sides, pats my backside so I am a bit out to the front, pushes in my belly. I think he wants me to stand at attention. Blast this lack of language!
I stand firmly to attention as if on the parade ground of the barracks of Chimkent. Ahmed smiles as if my posture is of his making, and not of the merciless drill sergeants who literally ran us into the ground and out of it again.
Ahmed claps his hands and walks through the doors pushing them open in front of him. He walks over to an empty throne-like chair and prostrates himself before it. He stays like this for five or so seconds and then gets up and goes to his right and again prostrates himself before an empty divan-sofa of the type they have in these parts. After five seconds prostrated in the obedience position, he gets up and stands at display as I call it facing the empty divan-sofa.
His pantomime is over. He comes and sits in the throne-like chair. It is clearly for my benefit. He points to the floor. I get the message. I do exactly as he has done. When I get up he has moved to the divan-sofa and I again I prostate myself and go to display.
I think it is over, but no. He takes me by the cock, such is the way slaves are frequently led around in this strange Palace and outside the door again. Turns me round facing the door, goes back inside and closes the door. Aha, I am getting the message. The first was the pantomime! Now is the dress-rehearsal, though I am wearing no military dress.
I hear two sharp handclaps. I push open the doors. Ahmed is sitting on the throne-like chair. I march in as only a Kazakh officer knows how. My backside is pushed forward, my belly in, my chest out like a duck on Lake Ozero. I make my prostration. When I get up, again Ahmed has moved and I move over and prostrate myself again before him on the divan-sofa.
Ahmed is obviously delighted with my quick uptake. He strikes the palm of his hand with his fly-swish in pleasure and comes over to me, looks me up and down and actually pats me on the side of my face with his hand. Again, a quick follow-me sign and we are off downstairs.
I wonder who is now looking after my beautiful horses. They like someone around when they are having their breakfast oats, and the stallion likes me to tickles his heavy balls when he is eating.
But I am apparently not to go out to see my horses again today. For over two hours, I am showered, shit, douched with those things that are pushed up your rectum.
I am shaven again. I only shaved this morning! My hair is cut. A cream is put over the light fine hair in the middle my chest and fifteen minutes later I am hairless. My groin hair is trimmed by the barber as well, and the hair in my pits is actually being combed. Am I a chicken being fatten for market as my beloved grandmother used say?
Later in the morning I am handed over to a small man who speaks the English language and who obviously is in authority as he has a black-handled fly-swish like Ahmed. I am guessing but I would say from his bearing and the manner that he looks at me, that he has been in the military. It takes one to know one, as they say.
He merely glances at my manhood, but appears more interested in my physique, my arms, my legs, my chest, my neck for some reason. The Master comes out, now dressed for the day, and they speak in English. As they speak my beautiful gelding is brought out. The Master is going to go riding. A slave I do not know is leading the horse, which the Master mounts and they canter off.
We have a language problem this person in authority and I. He speaks to me in English, but I do not understand. I say, `Nyet, droog, ia vass harrashaw ie ponneemaietie -- no, my friend, I do not understand you.'
He understands the word droog' and smiles, comes over and slaps me twice on the arm, and says russki'. I say proudly Kazakh'. He points to his tongue and to his head and says russki' again. He is pantomiming that I understand and speak Russian. I say `da, yes' and that is about the limit of what I can remember, well may half a dozen words more, but our English teacher was a Georgian and we never learned much.
We move out of the sun to one of the porticos of the courtyard of the Palace, and this overseer stands back from one of the pillars about a metre, he is not very tall, but obviously powerful. He stretches forward with one arm and starts to do one-arm press-ups against the pillar. He then turns to me and with the both hands in the air pantomimes to me that I have to do 30 with one arm and then 30 with the other. And he walks off. Just like that. He is not going to supervise my workout. It is as if once he has given the order, there is no reason to believe that it will not be carried out. That man has been in the military!
It is an easy work out. 30 with the left arm. 30 with the right. I am not even breathing deeply, well maybe a little. So I do another 30 of each. Then I remember some of the simple on-the-stop exercises which we had been taught at the academy, invented by our Russian colleagues but copied by the Canadian Air Force and sold to make millions for the capitalists warmongers -- well at least that is what the military history teacher taught us!
I was in the middle of the routine, when the overseer returned with another slave. I stood at display, more out of respect of one former officer to another former officer. The overseer spoke and the other slave now translated.
`You finished the arm exercises?' -- the slave had a strange Russian accent, but it was understandable.
`Yes, overseer, 30 of each, then repeated again.'
The slave said my words in English.
`What exercises are you doing at the moment?'
`The simple ones of the Kazakh Air Force.'
I thought I saw the overseer begin to smile.
`You were in Air Force?'
`No, overseer, I was a Speznaz Capitan in the Kazakh army.'
`Now you are a slave.'
`Yes, overseer.'
To-night, our Master Tariq -- so it was his name after all -- is having a very special dinner for a very special guest. He is going to give you as a gift to his guest. The head of household has told you how to behave?'
`Yes, overseer,' I said with as calm a voice as I could. I was to be given away as a present. I swallowed hard. I was only here some months.
`Today, I am going to spend with you and put you through some exercises to make sure you look your best this evening. Do you understand?'
`Yes, overseer.'
`Will it be sufficient for me to show you the exercises, or do you want this Latvian translating all the time?'
`No, overseer, if you show me. I will do it. May I ask a question, overseer?'
He furrowed his brow. It was clear in all my time at the Palace that slaves did not ask questions. The Latvian was looking nervously at the ground. The overseer breathed in deeply and out again.
`Yes, what is it?'
`Overseer, sir, where am I? Which county?'
He looked at me at hearing the question put to him in English by the translator and replied quietly, as if exercising his patience.
"You are in the Sheikdom of Dahra on the Persian Gulf' and, with that, dismissed the Latvian translator slave.
To be continued ...