Dahran

This is the tenth chapter ex twenty two of a novel about slavery and gay sex.

Keywords: authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, re-training, submission, gay, sex

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 Special Memories by Gerry Taylor

Chapter 10 - The Australian -- Day 20

When I purchased Roge Harte, it was out of my love of the Aussie Rules type -- the long limbed, rangy, well-muscled, athletically and fighting fit sort of guy. Roge had played for one of the very minor AFL teams in Tasmania, the Hobart Gangers, which by all accounts were so close to the bottom of their league that any closer and they would have gone underground.

I had Josh Green, my lawyer and organiser of investigations in the Grand Cayman, do a full background check on the team, the players, the finances, the prospects, in a word, the works. I also instructed him to have a local cameraman make a video of whatever their next game might be. It turned out to be the last game of the season and they lost it well and truly. The report, warts and all, plus the video had now arrived, having cost some eight thousand Australian dollars.

I was first going to sit through the video alone the evening of its arrival, but being Friday and thus the Dahran weekend, I ran the first five minutes of it or so and changed my mind. The sound was not great, being whatever the camera mike had picked up at the event - and even I could see some mistakes in the game being played, but the sheer enthusiasm of both teams' players, the surprising cleanliness of the match for a sport that can be very rough and tumble.

Aussie Football is best shared. I had Food call Roge Harte, who had not yet put in an appearance at my breakfast table. Breakfast was not yet over and it promised to be a scorcher of a day, even though only mid-April.

Roge made a full and quick obeisance. Food and Drink who arrived in tandem - slipped off immediately to do whatever they had to do -- most likely chasing geckos on the roof - before I could think of anything to keep them busy.

'Good morning, Roge, you are looking well.'

'Good morning, Boss'.

He had never got into calling me Master.

I motioned him close and noticed how his all over tan was now taking shape. The depilatory cream had worked its wonders. His legs and upper torso were totally devoid of hair and each muscle and sinew stood out to perfection. A two-inch band of dirty blond hair was over his half erect penis, which sprang out very clearly from his hairless balls.

'Display'.

He went to 'display' putting his hands behind his neck. The wisps of armpit hair still moist after the morning shower.

I ran the fingers of each hand up the outer side of his legs, as I had done with him on previous occasions, at the back of his knees, caressed back of his muscled thighs and brought my thumbs around to lightly touch the inside of his thighs. His legs were on either side of my knees as I conducted this examination.

'Even in twenty days, Roge, I can see how you have progressed, and progressed very well, if I may say so. Your body is looking very, very well and soon it will look even better.'

His penis was now at full erection, but that was not my target or even my intention to have it erect. It was his own body expressing within its most basic instincts, the appreciation of being touched. I let my right hand slip in behind his balls. The perineum was cool and totally shaven and as smooth as the palm of my hand. I felt no clench motion from Roge's body. He was totally relaxed to my touch, looking into the half-distance over my head, as I looked up at his face from my seated position at the breakfast table.

'See how very sensitive some parts of your body are, Roge'.

'Yes, Boss, very sensitive some parts are,' but he kept looking straight ahead over my head.

I let the fingers of my hand slip right under him and I felt my fingers touch the crack in his ass from the back. Unlike the first times he had been at 'display' before me, this time the cheeks of his bum were quite relaxed. There was certainly no clenching of the buttocks.

'You seem to be more relaxed each time I examine you, Roge.'

'Yes, Boss. I think you are going to do anyway what you want to do, whether I have my bum clenched or not.'

He knew precisely what I was thinking.

'And if I do what I want to do, how is that with you, Roge?'

'You're the boss, Boss, and that's that,' it was very emphatic.

I pulled my fingers back from his still unclenched ass cheeks and in passing by his back passage, I let two of my fingers light pass over its tightness. Roge appeared to go a half inch up on his toes, but dropped again, when my fingers continued forward and out and just stroked his balls, which produced the fine drop of precum in his piss slit, his foreskin having retreated three-quarters ways up his beautifully coloured cock head.

I touched the drop of precum and it stayed on the tip of my middle finger. I lifted the middle finger to Roge's lips and said, 'Open'.

He blinked and opened his mouth. I put in my finger until I touched his tongue and merely left it there. He blinked again and then slowly sucked my finger for some seconds before I pulled it out and put it in my own mouth.

'Roge?'

'Yes, Boss.'

'Look at me.'

'Yes, Boss.'

'Do you know what you have really just done?'

He looked confused.

'No, Boss,' he finally admitted.

'Your tongue has just said 'Hello, Boss' and not uttered a word. The cheeks of your ass, have just said, 'Hello, Boss' and not said a word. When can I claim the rest of your body and hear it say 'Hello, Boss'?'

'I think, Boss, you can claim it when you want and I won't have very much say about it.'

'And in claiming your body, Roge, have I hurt you at all?'

'Apart from those bloody alligator clips, no Boss, not at all.'

'That was for one hour, Roge and it was because you refused to comply with a very simple procedure of our way of life here at the Lime Palace. I see you fitting in very well now. You are training very well, aren't you?'

'Yes, Boss.'

'You are fitter than you have been in years. Rolf is very pleased with your progress, even your swimming.'

'Is he, Boss? he never says anything only 'maybe, maybe.'

'Yes, Roge, he is very pleased as am I with the way your upper body is developing. See how your belly is now becoming a clear six-pack. You are coming on very well, Roge.'

'Thanks, Boss.'

'Now while I have another cup of coffee, let me see you give me a hundred press-ups followed by fifty sit-ups and if they are really good, I may have a surprise for you.'

'A surprise, Boss?'

'Yes, Roge, a real surprise.'

Roge Harte liked challenges and with a big teenager-like grin, Roge dropped to the veranda floor and started with ten fast, one arm, press-ups with his left arm, then with his right arm and a combination of other press-ups with his ankles together and legs wide apart, finishing off by putting his toes on a chair and doing the last ten press-ups at a downwards angle to the floor.

Without drawing breath, he was into fifty quick sit-ups and with an impish grin, finished a little out of breath saying, 'Boss, you haven't finished your coffee.'

I looked in the cup and it was still almost full.

'Your combinations distracted me totally, Roge. They were superb.'

'Thanks, Boss.'

I could see in his face that he wanted to know what his surprise was, but he would have to wait.

`I have a lot of paperwork to do at the moment. When do you finish with Rolf in the gym this morning?'

`When everyone is coming back from the fields, towards eleven.'

`Good, come back and see me then and we'll see about your surprise.'

Roge bounded off like a lamb in a meadow on a spring day. If only we were all that easily pleased in life!

The morning flew by. With the paperwork associated with both Palaces, it was constant going.

The cough at the door disturbed me. Roge Harte was back, his skin glistening with either a sheen of perspiration, but more likely of residual water from the pool, which was quite literally drying off him as I looked at him, such is the absorption rate of the Dahran climate.

I looked at my watch and could not believe that it was already after eleven.

`Roge, stand in the sun until you are dry and in five minutes, come in.'

Roge must have been counting the seconds, because he came back in almost immediately.

'Can you keep your lips sealed, Roge? Can you keep a secret?'

'Yes, Boss. Definitely, Boss.'

He was like a little child in his eagerness.

'Follow me then.'

We went in through the study and into what in times would be a drinks room off the main dining room. I had not the new Lime Palace fully furnished at that time. I'd had Bob set up the video machine in there with a single comfortable chair for myself. The room was small and any noise from the video could be contained.

I told Bob to bring in what I had ordered him earlier to have ready and told Roge to kneel down on the carpet. In the pocket of a light jacket draped inconspicuously over the chair, rested a Sony hand recorder I had sometimes used for dictation at the Bank. It might come in useful later.

I picked up the video I had had made on the way back in.

Roge was looking at me and looking at the video, not knowing what was going on.

Bob came in with a tray with a jug of his famous thirst quenching lime-water, some glasses and a can of Fosters and put them on the table beside the chair.

Roge's eyes were on the Fosters like a mongoose's on a cobra.

'Do you know how to work the video?' I said handing him the tape.

'Yes, Boss,' Roge said, but his eyes were riveted on the can of Fosters.

'Put it in.'

'Yes, Boss'.

I motioned Bob out of the room.

Roge inserted the tape into the video, pressed the `Start' button and slid down on the floor beside the table.

With a finger I pushed the ice-cold can of Fosters, already with a dew of moisture on its metal, across to him.

Over the following two hours, there were shouts and roars in the closed room, as Roge Harte lived every second of the final match of the season of a sport he would never play again.

And then the match was over and I told him to hit the `Rewind' button. He was biting his lower lip when it finished as he tried to hold back tears as he looked at the blank video screen.

I asked him, what he thought about the game. Roge knew all the players, even though the quality of the picture at times was bad and the quality of the sound even poorer. He lived each play, described each move to me. He had called out at the players, urged them on, shouted at them, commented and cursed under his breath. For two hours of play and extra time, he had been the game and the game had been he.

The Fosters he had sipped and sipped and sipped, never a mouthful, never a long drink from the can.

'What did you think of the match?' and I indicated to him to kneel down beside me.

'Boss, it was a bloody great game.'

'Roge, your old team lost and in the last match of he season! And you say it was a great game.'

'Boss, it wasn't the match. After five minutes, I knew the team was going to lose. It was the game, Boss. It was the game. They fought and fought until into the last quarter. That's what the game is all about. It was a great game. But the match was a fucking disaster.'

I looked at him, retrieved the empty Fosters from him and dumped it in the wastepaper basket and I could only start laughing at his earnestness. Roge Harte lived for the game, for the sport. Not for the day or the match.

'Tell me about the Hobart Gangers, Roge,' as I put my hand into the sports jacket draped over the chair and switched on the tape recorder.

The invitation to speak about 'footie' as he called it, took him over two hours into the mid-afternoon to complete. I had Bob bring me in a sandwich and I told him to bring in a biscuit and some water for Roge. He looked at the empty Fosters can in the wastepaper basket and then at me, but said nothing.

I had slipped off my right shoe and let my foot in between Roge's legs, touching the inside of his thighs and raising my toes now and then to run them gently against his balls. He was in full erection after some minutes, but never budged an inch.

Roge Harte spoke of footie as only the true fan and lover of the game can speak. He mentioned every one of the twenty two players on his team by name and their strengths and weakness, the subs, the manager. It was as comprehensive a report from the sporting aspect as the Grand Cayman one and had cost me a Fosters and a biscuit.

'So, Roge, the Gangers are now at the bottom of the league. What will they do next year? Do you think they will improve?'

While Roge spoke, looking wistfully into the unseen distance, the microphone was still picking up Roge's words.

'Honestly, Boss? No. Too many problems. Not enough good players. Not enough young players. Not enough cash for equipment, for the stands. You saw it was at the home ground. You should see the showers. What we have here at the Lime Palace is the height of luxury compared to the grounds' showers. The manager is on his last season or so they said. The Board is old and tired. But Boss, the game will go on.'

'I think, Roge, that was one of the best summaries of any situation I have ever heard.'

'You think so, Boss? It won't do the club any good.'

'So who in your opinion are the two best team managers at present in Australia.'

He quickly named off two.

In quick succession, we went over every position on the field. Roge was so enthusiastic speaking about the sport and the game and he had not moved an inch from my big toe now massaging the underside of his balls. He was even out of breath at the end of it all.

`Roge, come over here. Display. I think you deserve a little reward for that explanation. Don't you?'

Roge was now standing beside my chair, his hands clasped behind his head, his belly sucked in, his penis at full erection from my stroking toes, his ankles two feet apart. His fair armpit hairs were moist and letting off their unseen pheromones. His smooth body still, save for a slight rise and fall of his chest.

`Would you like to close your eyes, Roge?'

`Yes, please, Boss' and he closed his eyes fast as with our coded shorthand, he wanted me to take his sex and manhood in my mouth.

Roge Harte's precum was trick and smooth, more like a syrup than the body's sexual lubricant. I ran my lips over the head of his cock and with my teeth scraped the back of his glans. I could feel his body shudder and tremble. Roge was learning to hold back on his ejaculations.

Having kept Roge at full erection for some minutes, I wet my right middle finger with his own precum and stroked the very centre of his anus. It was clenched but not tightly so. His breathing became ragged and suddenly as if my sheer force of will, the clenched anus was totally relaxed. My finger circled the now smooth muscle of its entrance and slipped quietly in like a burglar seeking booty.

I let my finger rest. I moved my finger slightly. Roge breathing was still okay, a little ragged, but okay. As my tongue washed the shaft of his cock and my lips ran down the shaft which was coloured rough pink at its top just behind the hood to golden tan at its base, I heard Roge groan.

I stopped.

`Okay, Roge, you can start counting up to a hundred now.'

`Boss, I'll never last to a hundred. No way. Never.'

`Try, Roge, try.'

`Boss, you said it would only be to forty the next time. Forty.'

`Let's split the difference, Roge, and say sixty. Now count and no more arguing.'

`One, two,..'

I resume my sucking of his glorious member, my finger lodged firmly and unmoving in his chute. When Roge got to twenty without problem, I start to gently move my finger until I had found the walnut hardness of his prostate, just a little further in and back towards his lower belly. His counting almost faltered on the first touch, but did not break.

At forty, Roge was on the edge of orgasm. His toes were curled. His arms had come loose from the back of his head, half in the air at the back of his ears. His counting was quavering.

`How's it coming, Roge?'

`Oh Boss, I'm not going to last. You're touching me inside. I think I'm going to explode.'

`Continue counting, Roge.'

It wasn't fair. I could have brought Roge off at any point. But he loved his little challenges. He did not want to give in. Not an inch. Not an ounce. Not a second. Not a number. I eased up on the massaging of his prostate and he reached sixty and opened his eyes, and shouted, `Boss, I did it. I fucking did it.'

With that my finger jabbed his prostate hard twice in rapid succession. My lips tightened on his shaft. The tip of my tongue went into his piss slat, and my teeth touched, just touched the helmet of his cock head, and Roge in all of a split second went into orgasmic overload and four powerful spurts of semen hit the back of my throat. I was looking up at his face, his eyes now wide open. His eyes were wide open looking down at me in wonder. His cock was too sensitive to continue further and I slipped out my finger from his tightness. Roge was breathing like an athlete after a run or a footballer after a game.

`Roge, off you go now and have a swim and see what Rolf has lined up for you.'

'Yes, Boss and thanks, Boss, for talking about the game and the video and you know what' and he nodded towards the wastepaper basket.

'Off you go.'

Once Roge was safely out of hearing, I rewound the audio tape and pressed play'. ...cash for equipment, for the stands. You saw it was at the home ground...' I fast-forwarded. Yes, the names were there all right and neither too muffled nor rattled off too quickly. Still, I sighed at the thought of my next job being the transcription of the whole list. The work a Master has to do at times for his slaves!

What had I learned from Roge Harte on his twentieth day of training? I had learned that he trusted me as a Master; that he obeyed my commands, minimal and all that they might be; that he realised he was important to me; that actions would be rewarded.

But also, for the first time, he had opened his anal virginity to my touch, albeit a one-fingered touch, and he had effectively lasted up to the count of sixty, which would have been impossible for his hair-trigger response some twenty days previously.

Ah, Roge Harte was a delight to train and being trained, little by little, he was most assuredly!

End of Chapter 10