This is the first chapter of part three of a trilogy of novels of gay sex.
Keywords: authority, control, slavery, punishment, re-training, submission, loyalty
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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Contact points: eMail: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com Web: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Erotic_Gay_Stories
Contents
Chapter 1 January Diplomats
Chapter 2 January Proposal
Chapter 3 January Building Program
Chapter 4 February Marko
Chapter 5 March Todd re-visited
Chapter 6 June Deckams
Chapter 7 June Jack
Chapter 8 June More about Jack
Chapter 9 June Dahran summer
Chapter 10 July Buddies
Chapter 11 July Bob
Chapter 12 September Runaway
Chapter 13 September Prisoner-slaves
Chapter 14 October Inaki
Chapter 15 October Jack yet again
Chapter 16 October Visitors
Chapter 17 October Vedel and Beno
Chapter 18 October Retraining
Chapter 19 November Prisoner-slaves again
Chapter 20 November Soup & satellites
Chapter 21 December Ambassadors
Chapter 22 December Success at last
Characters in part three of the story of Sir Jonathan Martin - my story
Background Characters Abdou al-Akhri youngest of the al-Akhri brothers Abu Ben-Azri businessman, seaweed producer Colin Bowman Deckam's Rio de Janeiro partner Faisal my chauffeur at the bank. Farouq al-Hatim Mine owner and businessman Gus Jennings American, Tariq al-Akhri's stables' overseer Gustav Ahlson Swedish, head of Deckams' Dahra office Ivan Urlov Russian, unsuccessful stables' overseer Jalal al-Akhri Second of the al-Akhri brothers John Tunnor personnel partner at Deckams Jonathan Martin myself, English, banker Deckams' Dahra partner Rashid al-Akhri eldest brother and head of the
al-Akhri family Tariq al-Akhri deputy Finance Minister, second
al-Akhri brother Tommy Elford English, Deckams' Tokyo partner
Employees Cal Thorson American, second dentist Hal Thiecke American, first dentist Nacho Cuesta Costa Rican, ophthalmologist Yves Fournier Doctor and surgeon
Overseers Aziz al-Aziz head of Abdou al-Akhri's, head of my household Greg Logan English, former Commando, 10th slave, training overseer Pete Downings Australian, painter, 21st slave, 2nd head of household Stan Mercer New Zealander, 26th slave, water overseer Yuriy Obov Kazakh, my 1st slave, fields overseer
Assistant overseers at the Aloe Palace Jess Tollman American, paint factory worker, my 16th slave Radek Pachlik Czech, 2nd slave, assistant field overseer Rolf Hanzer Swiss German, sports, 3rd slave, gym and swim coach
Assistant overseers at the Lime Palace Dumi Bod Moldavian, my 5th slave, assistant field overseer Jiri Aron Czech, farmhand, my 8th slave, far Mehmed Mehri, layabout slave, 14th slave Mamoud Mehri, layabout slave,15th slave Raoul Sounard French, meat packer, 23rd slave Todd Allen American, lorry driver, 20th slave, assistant field overseer Yedo Petrov Bulgarian, farm worker, 18th slave
Personal and household slaves Ali Tasani Kurd, 11th slave Andy McTee Scottish, 24th slave, English teacher Bob Conrad Canadian, jock, 7th slave, house help, English teacher Bryce Sands American, English teacher Flavio Pinelli Italian, my 4th slave, my chef Food / Drink my two body slaves, 12th and 13th slaves Hassan Dufhar Somali, 25th slave, Arabian teacher Ivan Sorovich Russian, 1st slave to be retrained Jens Johansson Danish, 1st prisoner-slave Jerzy Zarchewicz Polish, waiter, 28th slave, property team Komil Rostov Uzbek, mechanic, 19th slave, personal slave Marek Czyblonzki Polish, bartender, 27th slave, property team Nassr al-Merga Egyptian, Arabic Teacher Niko Ziel South African, ex 20 gift slaves Randy Tait American, electrician, 22nd slave, assistant to doctor Roge Harte Australian, footballer, personal trainer Rob Kuiper South African, ex 20 gift slaves Ross Wells English, ninth slave, call guy English teacher Scott Billings American, English teacher Sergio Goncalves Brazilian, limbo dancer, 29th slave, assistant to dentist Sunar Hussein Iraqi, Arabic Teacher Tommy Saunders American, ex-cop, English teacher Vitali Belov Russian, 6th slave, my masseur Walid Boudenib Moroccan, Arabic Teacher Wik Kootens Dutch, 30th slave, property team
Other person's slaves Ahmed Tariq al-Akhri's head of household Faisel Tariq al-Akhri's chauffeur Vedel Vesh Jack's Romanian slave Beno Vesh Jack's Romanian slave Jon Lundt Swedish slave Thorval Jensen Swedish slave
The Market Offer by Gerry Taylor
Chapter 1 -- Diplomats
It is my firm belief and has not varied over the years that diplomatic do's are best avoided -- at all costs. That, alas, is the result of experience, a posteriori, as they say. Of course, when it happens and you are asked to attend and the white embossed card with the perfect calligraphy and the gold edging states your name so invitingly, normally reliable and sound common sense goes out the window, and you are flattered.
It gets worse when someone from the embassy rings up and says, `Sir Jonathan, the Ambassador was so hoping that you could attend the reception.'
You are doubly flattered. They know you exist! You are more than just a banker who by a strange quirk of fate just happened to get a K' and have the title of Sir' prefixed before your name.
Would they have done it if they had known all your grubby little deals and schemes and what, particularly the what, you owned? But then again, they might just have invited you because you are a leading light and force in Dahra, that small but significant desert Sheikdom which merely sits on top of the world's fifth largest reserves of oil and fourth largest reserves of gas, and basks in a midday heat only equalled in the wastes of the central Sahara.
I had not responded to the R.S.V.P. direct number on the bottom of the invite, quite simply because it had only come in the morning post and was sitting with a dozen other items of fresh correspondence on my desk.
That itself should have warned me. If I had not responded for say a full week, they might well have chased me up. But not even allowing to get past mid-morning coffee smacked of indecent haste. And that, as I say should have warned me, but, alas, did not.
However, flattery to one's ego is like hot air into a rising balloon and I heard myself replying, `Please tell the Ambassador that I shall be delighted to attend.'
I noted the time and date on the computer and put it out of my mind to look after the more pressing task of placing half a billion euro in German fixed bonds.
My work at Deckams Bank, so to speak, is to place the vast amounts of money put on deposit with us in suitable investments around the world. And when I say vast, I mean vast. The Sheikdom underground may well be awash in oil and gas, but once having surfaced, they leave the small nation awash in currency.
On the day of the reception, Faisal, my driver knew where to go. I had never been to any of the embassies since arriving in Dahra eight months previously, not even to the one that flew our own flag over its front door. When I told Gustav Ahlson, the general manager at the Bank, that this would be my first `do' so to speak, he murmured that over eight months without a diplomatic reception must be a Dahran record, and that he himself avoided, at least, two a month.
I had informed myself from Gustav that I would be perfectly respectable in a dark suit, that nowadays nobody went in an evening suit and there was not need for a bow tie, unless I wanted to -- which I did not.
The Ambassador, Sir Graham, and his wife, were just inside the door greeting guests as they arrived.
Sir Jonathan, I am truly delighted to meet you at last' - double handshake presidential style for that greeting. I simply do not know how we have not met since your arrival here, some six months -- you say eight months -- ago.'
I let him off the hook easily by saying that I was in and out of the country a lot. A little white lie as I only fly the New Concorde to London and back once a month for our third Monday of the month meeting of the Board.
Other guests were arriving, so I went on in accepting a flute of very good champagne on the way. I don't know what I expected at an embassy reception, hundreds of people perhaps, but in fact, there were maybe some thirty persons standing around evenly divided, well almost evenly, between men and women. The men all thankfully, except for one man over-dressed in full evening suit and whites, were in business suits.
Sir Jonathan?' this man said coming up to me Ken Wallace, deputy head of mission.'
Ah!, not just diplomats, people with a mission!
`Delighted to see you here. We have, in fact, been quite looking forward to meeting you.'
Who were the `we'? I wondered. And why a banker, though Deckams go back centuries?
`Who do you know here?' the deputy head of mission enquired.
I professed a total ignorance of all those whom I could see, so he said `Well, let me then introduce you around until Sir Graham comes in.'
Wallace moved like a dolphin in water in the diplomatic circle of the invited guests. Within five minutes, I was speaking to both the Italian and French ambassadors, and was soon joined by the Danish ambassador. We were a little group in a corner so to speak, and had I been more alert, I would have realised that the deputy head of mission had so organised it that we were protected' or shielded' from the main group of invitees by a number of lesser diplomats from other embassies.
The diplomats skated on the ice of contacts and relationships and business and finance with an ease born of years of practice. The outer group opened and closed admitting a woman, the Swedish ambassador. More ice- skating.
Finger food was beginning to be served around the guests but the outer group effectively `shielded' us as far as I could see from being served canapes and smoked salmon on brown bread.
Finally, Sir Graham, broke through the outer circle and said, I think everyone has arrived now' and turning to his deputy head of mission, he said, Thank you, Ken, you can take over from here' and with that, opened a side door leading the group of us into a smallish dining room, where a table was set in readiness for perhaps half a dozen or so people.
Already, there was a man seated in there at the table reading some papers, and he rose up, I noted, to come to greet me and not the other diplomats. He introduced himself as the German ambassador.
I also noted two things, Sir Graham, locked the door behind us, and going over to the sideboard, pressed, with a deliberate push of a finger, the red button on a small gadget. Two circles of what looked like steel or aluminium on top of it started to rotate.
`Now, my friends, I think we are almost ready. We shall not be interrupted and the room is now secure,' he said pointing to the rotating circles on top of the gadget on the sideboard.
`Francois, will you look after the red? Mario, the white? And let us please sit down and feel at home. Do help yourselves,' he waved at the various cold dishes on the table.
You will forgive, Sir Jonathan,' he said addressing me, the small deception in getting you here?'
The Ambassador was talking to me. Forgiveness? Deception? What was he going on about?
`Ambassador?' I started to say.
`Please, call me Graham. You are among friends here.'
`Graham, I am totally at sea. I am here to attend a reception, nothing more. Excuse me but you all seem to have an agenda of which I am not aware.'
Good,' the German ambassador commented slapping the table as if at a Munich beer festival. It's holding. I knew it would if we did it this way,' he said looking around his colleagues.
`What, Ambassador, is holding?'
`Gerhardt, please, Sir Jonathan. Our proposed plan. But I think, Graham, you had better explain the bolts and nuts as you say of what is being proposed here this evening.'
Sir Graham just stopped long enough serving himself some salmon, to look around the table and say, `Ah, yes, the nuts and bolts, a summary.'
Jonathan, since you arrived in Dahra,' he began, you have had extraordinarily good fortune. You saved the Deputy Finance minister's life, rather dramatically, I must say. Quite a rugby tackle.'
He was referring to an episode the very first week of my arrival. I was not going to tell him or those present what type of return payment had been made back to me.
`Some weeks later, we were about to invite you to the usual round of things, when the Foreign Office asked us not to. Nothing wrong with you. Simply not to.'
`Then for some reason, Deckams' fortunes in Dahra seemed to rise and rise, as you very quickly became the number one private Bank by far, not just in Dahra but throughout various of the Emirates.'
He was referring to the inflow of almost half a trillion euro over six months into the Bank. I was not going to tell him or them that this was because I had done a favour to one of the most powerful Dahran families netting them over half a billion euro in the space of a week.
`Then we had a memo from the Palace no less, by-passing the Foreign Office, that should you ever require assistance, it was to be immediately and without question forthcoming from the Embassy.'
Then, Jonathan,' he continued, your standing in the Dahra business and financial community has soared as none before you. Your name is spoken with awe by the entire al-Akhri family and by Farouq al-Hamdi, and you know he owns the largest opal mine in the world. These are people not easily given to exaggeration.'
When we enquired after some months of the Foreign Office if there was any change in your status, that they might have forgotten to tell us, the reply was a clear hands off' that you were not to be bothered. That was until last week.'
Sir Graham reached out to help himself to some mayonnaise, and then, with true timing, he struck, `By the way, Jonathan, how many slaves do own at present?'
The silently rotating gadget on the sideboard was the loudest sounding item in the dining room. I look at the Ambassador, who was engrossed in putting a dollop of mayonnaise on his salmon. The other Ambassadors were looking at me, expectantly, questioning with their eyes, forks half-way between plates and mouths.
Sir Graham, and it is Sir Graham' now,' I said rather irritably and tetchily, `you have me at a disadvantage, in that I did not know that this reception was to turn into an interrogation. Secondly, my home is my castle, or rather here in Dahra, my palace, and what occurs there is my business and no one else's.'
I was beginning to wonder if they knew about Gustav Ahlson's slaves. But with the Swedish lady ambassador at the table, I was not too sure either way.
`Sir Jonathan, please do not be offended. This is not an interrogation, quite the contrary. We are diplomatically intrigued and professionally amazed, but more than that we have been collectively instructed to contact you to put a proposal to you. All our governments know of the age-old slave trade here in Dahra. It is one of the best kept political secrets from the general public of the new millennium.'
From what we have been able to glean is that you are now the owner of some slaves -- we do not know how many and that the word retrainer' has been used with awe in your regard. That whatever system you use, it works for retraining the attitude of those who are slaves, who become totally and utterly loyal to you, not out of fear, but it is said with respect.'
`And by the way, congratulations on the discovery of water on your property. It has been the talk of the capital.'
I knew the ploy; the Ambassador was giving me time to think and to put my thoughts together. The eyes of all in the room were on me continuously.
I sipped on a glass of water that was in front of me, pushing the flute of champagne to one side. I thought that I had better avoid the champagne if I were to keep a clear head.
'Ambassador...Graham, I own 29 slaves. Some were given to me and some I have bought.'
Sir Jonathan,' the Italian ambassador said, we know really very little of all of this, and are trying to get some facts so that we can, on behalf of the EU governments -- you see, we are speaking for all of them -- so as to put a proposition to you.'
The German ambassador chimed in.
`Jonathan, can we ask you a series of simple questions?'
I nodded.
`Are your slaves well treated'
`Yes.'
`How do you treat them well?'
`A specific diet, something over four hours of daily work, daily exercise, a number of inter-related things' -- I was not going to mention here the existence of a buddy or sex partner for each.
`Has anyone tried to escape?'
`No.'
`Do you punish the slaves?'
`I have only had one slave punished publicly before the others and he apologised to the other slaves he had hurt.'
`Are they in good health?'
`Yes, given medical and dental treatment. I cannot say from where but there is also permanent rotation of twenty slaves who come for a month at a time to the Aloe Palace. No one forces them to come and after a week away, they are back for another month, anxiously waiting to return.'
`How do you retrain them?' It was the French ambassador.
`That. Ambassador. I would prefer not to say.'
`Do you sell your slaves when retrained?'
`No, I do not to date. It is not my intention.'
There was a number of glances around at this comment, which I could not fathom. I though I had said enough, and decided that it was time that they told me what was going on.
`Now, ambassadors, I have told you essentially what you have wanted to know and answered your questions. What is the proposal that you intend putting to me?'
They looked at each other and then looked back at Sir Graham. He raised his eyebrows and opened his hands as if enquiring yeah' or nay' from the others. Each of them in turn nodded.
`The proposal is this, Jonathan. Our respective governments and other governments for which we speak want your facility to take some other persons.'
I bridled at that. My ears pricked up at the diplomatic language. My home, my Palace was being referred to as a facility' and those whom I would be asked to take were persons.'
I held up my hand.
The Aloe Palace' I said, is my home and home to my slaves. It is not a facility. Secondly, in Dahran law, I am the only person, apart from the professional medical personnel who live there by contract and my driver who chooses to live there, but all others are slaves, not persons.'
Yes, Jonathan, we realise that, but we are working with new concepts here and I do apologise for referring to your home as a facility'.'
Those whom, we would wish to send, Jonathan,' he continued, effectively no longer exist in our countries let alone in our societies. They are people who, for instance, are in prison for the rest of their lives, either given long sentences in moments of public or political hysteria, and some even who are innocent of the crimes for which they were jailed.'
Let me give you some examples,' he went on. In one of our countries, - we have compiled various common examples -- a man was sent to jail for poisoning eight people. He has been in jail for six years now. There was hysteria when it happened. No one has visited him in four years. Two new tests have shown that he could not have done it, and the real culprit was helped by a very powerful organisation and is now living in the Pacific area. Politically, he cannot be released because of the organisation involved.'
`Another example. Anti-terrorist legislation exists in all our countries. Our governments now each know that at least one or two people are totally innocent and were convicted either on falsified police evidence or the planting of evidence by international investigation or security forces at the height of an episode of public hysteria.'
`Several of the governments are most concerned about the fabrication of evidence as it was provided with the help of international bodies so to speak. These prisoners cannot be released without bringing down entire governments and causing political chaos. There are also some cases of verdicts of natural life, which is other countries would be five years in jail, if that. You realise that no two countries have matching lengths of sentences for crimes. But mainly, these are cases where the innocent cannot be released and so, one man suffers so that the majority community can live in peace.'
`Ambassadors, what you are saying is that you want innocent people to live the lives of prisoner-slaves for the rest of their lives, so that governments may continue.'
Hard as it is to say so, yes,' Sir Graham replied. If you totally refuse to assist, this conversation will never have taken place. If you do agree to assist, you can do so to the level that you think possible and you lay down your own ground rules.'
In more ways than one, the reception was over. Any appetite for eating had long since disappeared.
`In all how many such persons are you talking about?'
`We would not be sure. We have been told to mention a figure of thirty, but it could be considerably higher. Each EU country would have at least one such person. Some a lot more,' the French ambassador said.
I looked at the six faces around the table whose governments knew of the slave trade in Dahra, who most likely knew of some of their own citizens being there as slaves, and who were now asking that further of their citizens live out the remainder of their lives as slaves with me and mine.
If I had harboured any qualms of conscience or morality about owning slaves before that moment, they disappeared in the face of the political hypocrisy which trained diplomats had been asked to convey. I told the Ambassadors that I would speak with them in one week's time. Same place, same room, same hour.
As the meeting concluded the Swedish lady ambassador caught my eye and I waited until the others had bid their adieus.
`Sir Jonathan, thank you for having met with us. I, but not the other ambassadors, am aware of the position of your general manager, Gustav Ahlson, and I am under personal royal edict to lend assistance to him at any stage should he request it. Because of the arrangement you have made with him, that royal edict has also been extended to you.'
I made no comment other than saying `Thank you, ambassador.'
The meeting just held with the ambassadors, I now see, was as momentous and fateful for me as my actual arrival in Dahra itself some eight months previously.
I returned to the Aloe Palace in some internal turmoil. I could not eat dinner and toyed with my food. I have always found that if sleep or food do not relax you then sex will. Food had not enticed me. Sleep did not beckon. So I opted to call for sex and retired early to the worried looks of Bob, the Canadian slave who served my table and of Flavio, my Italian slave and cook. Each night a slave is usually waiting to be my companion for the night and I usually choose whom in advance.
But as I arrived at my bedroom suite, Ross Wells, the English slave was waiting, hands behind his head in `display' position. I had not asked for any slave in particular that night, but it was if all knew that the best lover had to be sent. Ross had been a London call-guy and escort so he knew all the moves and was blessed not just with the right sized tackle, but had a smile to melt icebergs.
`Does everyone think that I am that badly off, that you have to be in my bed for the night.'
Ross smiled the smile and said `Afraid so, Boss. But if you don't mind, Boss, I'd like to have Vitali give me a helping hand.'
Vitali was a Russian slave, Ross's lover and a great masseur. Not only that but he had a cock which was almost permanently in perpendicular erection.
`So when did the great Ross Wells start doubting his prowess in bed?'
`Boss, I don't doubt anything, but we all need a little help from time to time. And whatever is bothering you, putting you out of sorts, is now bothering all of us. I just want to make sure that you know how much we all care for you.'
`Ok, where's Vitali?'
With a grin, Ross gave half a whistle, and Vitali trotted in for the adjoining bedroom.
`Now, Boss, the question is are you putting up a fight or are you going to surrender?' Ross enquired with his impishly smiling face.
`Two to one is not fair, so I had better surrender. Don't you think?'
`Very wise, Boss,' Ross said and Vitali nodded in agreement as he said out his massage oils.
Using my own technique against me, Ross and Vitali had me undressed in no time at all, and with two fingers on my chest as I do with the slaves, spun me round and again with two fingers on my shoulder pushed me face down on the bed.
As Vitali worked the oils into my shoulders, I felt Ross's tongue start at the soles of my feet and I just knew where that tongue was going to end up before Vitali got down to my waist.
Half an hour later when in the soporific state of bliss half between relaxed floating and massaged contentment, Ross turned me over, and while Vitali worked my scalp and facial muscles, Ross, with two licks of his tongue, brought me to full erection, straddled my hips and slid down on my hardness.
Ross's sphincter muscle control is superb at any stage. I could see him grinning down at me, his hands behind his head as if at `display'. The rectum muscles tightened and relaxed in a tempo of slow waltzes and quick foxtrots.
Vitali lent over my face to lick and play with my nipples. His hairless balls were just an inch from my lips, and I allowed myself to pass my tongue over their pink scrotal enclosure. His cock went from erection to total unsheathed flagpole status dribbling pre-cum and I took it in my mouth, promising myself that I would have him off before Ross had me come.
In racing, they say `by a nose'. But I came in one pent-up climax when Ross went into over-drive, and Vitali feeling the agony and the ecstasy of my release, shot load after load down my throat.
I don't remember anything after that other than waking up in the early morning spooned between the two slaves who were half clutching me, Ross, from behind -- an arm around my waist, and Vitali to the front, holding my right hand between his -- his blond Russian features in the total relaxation of sleep.
I thought that I was very fortunate to have two such very good slaves. The entire Palace would know undoubtedly by breakfast time in gory detail what had happened. So, I decided that I had better put on a cheerful face, or I would be totally and utterly exhausted if this sex therapy went on for the full week until my next meeting with the Ambassadors.