Dahran

This is the sixteenth 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 16 - The Male Secretary

His cock or rather his balls were resting in the palm of my hand. I say that because what had first caught my attention was that his cock was in erection much like the head of a cobra. It was erect, but its glans at the top was like a cobra's head -- pointing out and parallel to the ground and what made it particularly appealing was the hood of foreskin was only partially retracted, revealing the damp pink slit of his urethra. As my thumb confirmed as I ran it over the acorn of the glans, it was moist with precum.

Well, as I say, that was what first caught my attention. It was late September and I was in the slave centre in al-Qatim looking for two helpers for Stan, my water overseer. It was still his job in the early morning to see to the dispatch of the vegetables from the Aloe Palace to the markets in the capital. I had not got around to re-assigning that position and as Stan did it well, my motto in such matters is 'leave well enough alone', or as the more mechanically minded tend to say 'if it works, don't fix it'.

It was not the best of arrangements and I would have to change it in time, as Stan had to walk the mile each morning from the Lime Palace down the straight desert road to my previous home, the Aloe Palace, so as to arrange the daily vegetable dispatches. The market gardens of both Palaces were flourishing and what had started as a one-slave, then a two-slave, early morning operation, now required all of six to get the pallets ready for the dispatch of the vegetables.

I had assigned young Abdul to assist in this and he was delighted walking proudly and quietly, as he was wont to do at Stan's side. But Stan more and more had now to grab two or three slaves each morning who were unassigned for work that day and with them march down the road between the Palaces as well.

In his own inimitable New Zealand way, he had said enough was enough and that he need more permanent early morning help. So here was I, catalogue in hand, looking for two reasonably fit well-built worker-slaves who might fit the bill.

I had earmarked on the catalogue three or four possibles. It would depend how the bidding went. And then I saw the young slave with the erection.

I judged him to be mid-twenties. He was Caucasian, as our American cousins say, with the number 83 on the tag on his arm. The only trouble was there was no number 83 in the catalogue!

I caught the eye of one of the assistant dealers who came over at a trot and when, in Arabic, I pointed out the problem, he apologised. Three further slaves had arrived that morning and the dealership had not had time to put them into the catalogue. He would get me the actual slave's file immediately, if I would be good enough to wait a moment. I nodded agreement and he scurried off. I went back to fondling the balls of the young man with the erection.

I had not spoken a word to the slave and he, of course, had not said a word to me. That much training was obviously instilled in him. I gently felt each of his testicles -- the size of small plums and ran the backs of my fingers against the grain, so to speak, of the hairs on his inner thighs. A small strand of precum was beginning to drip from his urethra.

I touched his lower belly and it was warm and firm and there were good muscles under the skin. I looked up at his face really for the first time and what struck me about his eyes, not just that they were a slate grey, but that they were absolutely terrified.

His arms were behind his head held in place by a neck collar, Velcroed to his wrists, a loose, but effective binding -- the dealer had taken lately to this collar thing after a slave actually tried to hit another at one auction. Anyway the collar allows the slave to show off the upper chest, his axillae and at the same time, give the inspecting client the security, for what it is, of hands out of the way.

This fine specimen of slavehood could have been from anywhere, from eighty or so countries. I don't know why I had not spoken to him to enquire; I just had not.

The assistant dealer was back in a thrice, apologising yet again in Arabic for the confusion, with the house's tan folder on the slave. Number 83 was one Ben Trant formerly of Alberta, Canada, but lifted in Toronto. He was, as I almost rightly guessed, twenty six years old.

'Hello, Ben,' I said and he actually gave a little jump at being spoken to in English.

If before his look had been of being terrified, now that increased even more if such were possible, as if being spoken to in a language he knew would now reveal the fate in store for him.

'Sshhhh! Calm! I am not going to hurt you,' and I let my hand rest on his chest.

As he was on a raised dais, I had to reach up slightly and within his chest, I could now feel his heart jack-hammering its pulse.

'My name is Jonathan Martin. What is yours?'

It was the only way to start a conversation that would not scare him further.

He wet his lips and said, `Ben Trant, sir.'

'What caught my eye was your obvious excitement at being here,' and with my head I motioned to his erection.

'Some of the others were feeling me up and now it won't go down, sir.'

He was polite if anything.

'It says here, Ben, that you have been working in an office.'

'Yes, sir. I am a male secretary.'

I actually looked up at him rather sharply. I did not know if he was trying to make some sort of joke, but no, he was serious.

'You take shorthand?'

'No, sir, secretaries don't do that any longer. We would attend and record meetings, transcribe tapes and type them up, sir.'

'You can type?'

'Yes, sir, better than I can write.'

Very interesting.

'It says you were lifted in Toronto. How did that happen?'

'I am not too sure, sir, I just came out of a club and was grabbed and pushed into a van.'

I don't know what made me say it, perhaps just to assist my train of thought or the flow of the conversation, but I said, 'What? A night-club?'

'No, sir,' he hesitated for a second and then completed the sentence, 'a gay club.'

Now that was a first I can tell you, in my many visits to the auction rooms. No one had ever admitted to being gay.

'Are you saying, Ben, that you are gay?'

'Yes, sir.'

That was a definite first in my book.

'So you know all about sex then, Ben, and you've had it up your bum, is that it?'

'No sir. I don't know all about sex and I have never let anyone up my backside.'

'But you're gay. Why should I believe any of this?'

And then he stopped me in my auctioneering tracks when he replied, 'Yes, sir. I am gay', stressed the 'am' bit, 'and I never tell a lie.' And he stressed the 'never' bit as well.

There are jokes you tell, but this one was out of time and place and not the type of one you tell a prospective owner that you didn't tell tales, fibs, lies, or whatever we call them ourselves. Who among us has not told a lie, a big lie, a whopper, a little lie, a white lie?

I looked at him, or rather up at him, as his face was some inches higher than mine on the dais and he was not joking.

'How do I know that any of this is the truth? No lies, ever in all of your what, twenty six years?'

'No lies, sir, whatsoever. I just don't tell lies. And I can't prove that to you, sir, nor prove anything else to you, other than I have never been broken and am unused back there.'

I looked at him. He looked at me. And we stood at the crossroad of an impasse as to what was truth and what was not.

I said, `turn, bend and spread'.

He did. A small tight anus surrounded by a small circle of black hair was visible between two reasonably hair-free buttocks. If that anus had ever been entered from the outside, it did not show and from that moment, I took Ben Trant at his word.

In his auction, I was the only bidder and got him at the one and only opening bid of twenty four thousand euro.

I picked up two Byelorussians for the vegetable work. The first one looked fit enough when I inspected him and his name was Igor and when I had finished looking at him, I said aloud to myself, 'Well, one down. I suppose he'll do. Now, let me find another.'

This Igor clearly understood English, because he said something, which sounded rather harshly Slavic under his breath and a slave two from him now also stuck his chest out a mile. When I walked down to him, his number indicated that he too was Byelorussian.

I tapped the slave on the chest and finally said, 'Okay, Basili,' - that was his name according to the catalogue -- 'you can start breathing again.'

He did not have the same grasp of English as his friend because his chest stayed stuck out. So I went back to Igor and said to him, 'Okay, Igor. Igor and Basili. Okay.'

He gave a wide grin. Such lateral thoughts we have at these times -- that his pearly white teeth would not require much of our resident dentist Cal Thorsen's time -- and he nodded down the line to his pal, who thankfully deflated with a smile to Igor and to myself.

Both Byelorussians were knocked down to me for twenty and twenty one thousand euro each, after a couple of lukewarm counter-bids and Stan the man had his pallet stackers for the market vegetables in the morning and I now had a Canadian male secretary, who was gay and who did not tell lies.

As I had left the auction-rooms immediately after the purchase, I did not see the new slaves when they were delivered, on the next day, Friday. I had another engagement in the capital city and was not home until late around ten o'clock. So it was early after breakfast on the Saturday morning when I first saw them in the Lime Palace.

Aziz brought them to me after breakfast, with their minders and I saw that João and Sypros had been allocated to one of the Russians and Niko and Rob, the Afrikaners, to the other. These two teams always produced excellent results as 'oxen' -- harnessing the new slaves and instructing them in the ways of the Lime Palace.

As Food and Drink were always in the Palace, they had been assigned to Ben Trant -- though I myself thought that they would not have enough English for the task and he would have little or no Arabic. However, in this I was proven wrong, as I normally speak to them in Arabic, I had not realised how much their English had actually improved.

The previous morning, Greg and Jess, the assistant retrainers had put the three of them through the first five procedures of retraining with sparkling and effective results and they were booked in with both the dentist and the eye-doctor, as Dr. Fournier had given all a clean bill of health.

After breakfast the three were brought to me and Igor and Basili immediately rushed into an obeisance, to be followed more slowly by Ben, not that there was a fault in his. The two Byelorussians immediately edged forward and each put my right foot on the back of their heads, one after the other and both said 'Thank you, Mister, to buy Igor' and 'Thank you, Mister, to buy Basili.'

Well, almost perfect, but room for improvement as far as English went.

I looked at Ben Trant still on his knees.

'Well, at least two out of three are grateful. I suppose that is something, would you not say?'

'Yes, Sir Jonathan, it is and I too am deeply grateful that you have purchased me,' Ben replied.

'Deeply grateful? That seems a bit of a mouthful of lie for someone who does not tell lies. You are a slave here and you are going to work hard and please me and none other. What is there to be 'deeply grateful' about all that?' I said somewhat sarcastically.

At that point, various slaves were standing round apart from the buddies. There were Food and Drink. There was Bob, who was looking at Ben Trant and listening to his fellow Canadian's accent. Stan had come across to collect his two new vegetable assistants.

'Sir Jonathan, yesterday Food and Drink showed me all over the Lime Palace and the farms of the Aloe and Lime Palaces. I am looking forward to working on the farms. I saw various hundreds of slaves working and not one of them appeared harmed or branded or was being punished in any way. They all seemed to know what had to be done and were doing it quite happily.'

Ben Trant was in error and thought he was to work on the land and farms. I, nor anyone else, had told him otherwise.

I looked over at Stan and raised an eyebrow.

'He actually speaks in full sentences' was Stan's laconic reply.

'Ben tell Stan, my overseer, your sexual orientation and what else you do not do.'

Stan looked sharply at me.

Ben replied, `I am gay and I do not tell lies.'

Stan's mouth dropped open and various of those present who understood began to laugh, trustfully I hoped not at the 'gay' bit, but at the 'not telling lies' bit.

'Fine, Ben, what is your opinion of me?'

The laughter died and every breath was held awaiting the reply of the serious looking slave on his knees before me.

'Sir Jonathan, I have not yet made up my mind fully. You are strange, obviously rich. You are well educated, but beyond that I cannot say.'

'Well, Stan, what do you say to all of that?' I mused and glanced over at the property overseer.

'Boss, let me just say I am glad he did not witness a couple of things at the loading of the vegetables this morning, for you to ask him about today's dispatches to the market.'

Bob was holding his hand over his mouth trying not to laugh. I looked at him and said, 'Have you nothing to do today?'

Gathering up the breakfast dishes, he grinned and said 'Yes, Boss, I have a pile of things to do, but please, please, don't ask that guy anything else until I get back. I just can't wait to hear his answers' and he scuttled off bursting his sides laughing.

I told Stan to take his two new assistants and the others to get on with their duties. Only Food and Drink remained with Ben Trant.

'That's all for the moment,' I said to Food and Drink and looked as sternly as I could at the new secretary. I let him see my drumming fingers on the breakfast table.

'Did you see the rock duty yesterday?'

As the farm slaves clear each patch of new ground, they simply leave the stones and rock at the edge closest to the nearest intersecting path. A slave on `rock duty', as it is called comes along, putting the stones and rocks large and small into a wheelbarrow and then onto the next pile. A full wheelbarrow load is then dumped in a depression in the land which we are filling.

'Yes, sir'.

'What did you think of it?'

'It is the hardest job of all I saw.'

'Who do you think should do it for the next month?'

'I have no idea, sir,' and I saw a flicker of uncertainly in the eyes.

'That job awaits you, Ben Trant, like a flower awaits a bee, if you displease me on one single issue. Do you understand? And the proper mode of address is 'Master' in this Palace.'

'Yes, Master, Thank you, Master.'

'For the moment however, I want you to work in my office here at the Lime Palace. I keep some of my private papers here in the study which doubles as an office and also papers from the Bank where I work when I have to read them. Come with me and I'll show you where things are.'

He got up off his knees and we went into the study and I pointed out the six filing cabinets and my desk.

'You have permission to look in everything here in the office. Try to remember where things are. Don't disturb things too much and you will find things well filed and in order.'

'Yes, Master.'

It was only late afterwards that I realised that that was the rock on which I perished.

That Saturday, I had lunch with Tariq al-Akhri, the assistant deputy Finance Minister, who being asked to invest some family money in a large computer franchise wanted some advice. After work, I spent some further time in the capital city, choosing some extra furniture for the Lime Palace and visiting the slave paraphernalia supermarket and just to see what new stocks they had in.

So it was just after seven in the evening when I got back to the Lime Palace. The slaves were assembling for their evening meal and I immediately went into the study to drop some furniture brochures, which I had picked up and some documents, which Tariq had given me.

I though for a moment I had gone into the wrong room when I stepped into the study. Something was wrong! Something was definitely wrong! My files and folders which had been carefully left around the study were gone. The correspondence needing answering on my desk was missing! My diary was nowhere to be seen.

I do not normally raise my voice, but I quite literally shouted, 'Ben Trant! Ben Trant, where are you? Come here at once!'

The Palace normally has its hum about it. At my shout, there was the most unearthly quiet, which descended and then a scurrying of feet from the kitchen.

'Master, you called.'

'What have you done to the study? Where are my papers, my correspondence, and my diary? The files, the folders?'

I think Ben Trant was afraid of me for that one minute while I was ranting and that I was going to hit him.

'Master, everything is here and filed away in proper order. I have gone through the filing cabinets and put everything in proper order. We now even have a full cabinet free.'

'Where is my diary?'

He pulled open the top right drawer of the desk. The diary was there, where my hand would have been able to touch it had I been sitting at the desk.

'My correspondence that needs reply?'

He went to the first filing cabinet and produced a very thick file.

'It is all here, Master, in date order from the most recent to the oldest,' he replied nervously. `If you tell me each reply, I shall have it typed out for you immediately.'

My outburst now seemed a bit over the top. My annoyance was beginning to subside.

'Where are the TGV bond files?'

'Here, Master, second filing cabinet, under Bonds and then under TGV.'

'But this was all properly organised, why have you put it differently?'

'Master, first of all it was not properly organised and secondly, from now if you need a file, you simply ask me and I shall put it immediately on your desk.'

'What do you mean it was not properly organised? I knew where everything was.'

That was the point when I actually lost the argument, if I had one in the first place, because Ben Trant walked across to the first filing cabinet and pulled out three files and put the three files side by side on my desk. The first was an al-Mera catalogue, which I knew I had lost.

'Where was this?' I asked.

'Among some architectural papers about windows, Master.'

I remembered then that it was about the time that Marek and Jerzy had discovered the faults with the windows on the upstairs floors and I must have left one file inside the other.

The second file was a Grand Cayman file that I had been missing a while.

'Where was this?'

'Fallen down at the back of the fourth filing cabinet, Master. That is why the cabinet would not lock properly.'

I did not bother to ask about the third file which was a Bank file that I just 'knew' I had returned to the Bank, but obviously had not.

I looked at Ben Trant. He was just standing there looking towards me, but not eye to eye, rather at shoulder level. I put my hand out towards his flushed face suddenly. He did not flinch. He was brave, I would grant you that, because had I wished to hit him, I could have done so powerfully as he had not moved an inch.

With two fingers, I raised his chin until he was looking me in the eye.

'You will always look me in the eye.'

'Yes, Master.'

'How long did it take you to do all of this?'

'Just up to before you arrived, Master'

'Since seven this morning?'

'Yes, Master.'

'Well, then, we have a number of things to do this evening.'

'Yes, Master.'

'Get a pad and write this down.'

'Yes, Master,' and he took a notebook from one of the shelves.

'7.15 pm. Take a shower with the Master.'

Ben's eyes flickered across at me, but wrote down what I had said.

'7.30 pm. Have dinner with the Master seated at his right hand on the veranda. Got that?'

'Yes, Master,' he said quietly.

'8 pm. Walking with the Master among his slaves, ready to take notes. Got that?'

'Yes, Master.'

'9 pm. Go to bed with the Master.'

'Yes, Master.

'Any organisational difficulties with all of that?' I asked sarcastically.

'No, Master, none whatsoever.'

The shower was just a shower. Komil was in attendance and scrubbed down my back, as I like it. I turned Ben round when he was under the water and soaped his back. He had not said a word since downstairs.

'A penny for your thoughts.'

'I think, Master, you are trying to say you're sorry for shouting at me.'

'I think you're right, Ben, but don't be too right too often, at least not without my permission. Now rinse off and dry yourself.'

There was absolute silence in the courtyard when I sat down and Ben sat on a chair beside me. Slaves do not sit in the presence of their Masters. While I had my own dinner, he had his two biscuits and a bowl of soup served by Bob.

When I walked among the slaves afterwards, he followed with his hand-held micro-recorder, the first of many such occasions and as comments were made to me, these were noted by him on the machine and where decisions were required, I would find them next morning neatly typed on an agenda for the day.

When I went up to bed, Ben followed and stood beside Komil in the bedroom suite. When I had undressed, I went over to him and said 'for the next thirty days you will be sleeping with your buddies, who will tell you how to behave in the Lime Palace. Tonight is your night, Ben, with my apologies for shouting at you. You were right. Tonight, you can be a top and make love to me or to Komil, or you can be a bottom and Komil or I will make love to you. Or you can choose not to have any sex at all, just to sleep in a comfortable bed.'

'Master, if I could have someone just hold me. No one has held me in a long time.'

And so it was. Ben Trant missed a night of passion, preferring just to go asleep tightly held by Komil and sandwiched between my giant personal slave and myself.

Ben Trant took some getting used to. When I went on my rounds around the Palaces, if ever I were to take two steps backwards, I would have been treading on his toes.

I had Ben make a list one evening of what he needed to run my office from the Lime Palace. The list ran to two pages, I glanced at it, where it ran from a desk, an office chair, a computer and a whole pile of office supplies.

`Why have you chosen this computer,' I asked.

`Master, I saw the one in the doctor's office and asked his slave where it came from. He told me to speak with Jens the Danish slave and Jens advised me on what would be suitable.'

On that I could not fault him and I gave the list to the head of stationery at the Bank to have the whole lot purchased and charged to my personal account.

Ben had access to my diary and he saw my birthday at some point listed on the 5th March. On that date, the following year, I got an envelope with a card--merely a sheet of stiff paper folded inside it--with the words 'Sir Jonathan. Happy birthday with grateful thanks. Ben Trant,' and so it would arrive on my desk in each of the following years he served at the Lime Palace.

It is said, Masters train slaves to their whims and their way of life. Ben Trant trained me to always look life in the eye and always -- well, almost always -- to tell the truth.

Over the following month of the slave Jean-Pierre's basic training with the staff of the slave centre at the auction rooms, I returned each ten days to view his progress.

On the first occasion, I was told that the slave was in the exercise room and when accompanied there by one of the assistants, he was there on a treadmill, under the supervision of another slave. Although no one would have told him yet who his ultimate Master was to be, the fact that a Master had entered the exercise room was sufficient reason for the supervising slave to switch off the treadmill and give a sharp command in Arabic to Jean-Pierre as he stepped off the treadmill, to go to obeisance -- to go onto his knees and forehead to the floor in the presence of one's Master.

While the supervising slave did it by the book, quickly and carefully, Jean-Pierre did not. He made obeisance all right, but at his own pace and slowly put his head to the floor about a foot from my shoes. I asked myself what sort of attitude that was?

There was a camel cane on the sidewall of the exercise room together with two leather straps. I told the assistant who had accompanied me to get the camel cane which was just a little under four feet in length. He brought it over to me. Neither of the two slaves on the ground had moved. One would have understood the fast Arabic. I doubted if Jean-Pierre had.

When I received the camel cane, I went to the side of the slave who had been supervising Jean-Pierre and said to him, 'It is your duty not just to exercise the slave, but to show him by your example how to make a perfect obeisance,' and I gave him a single well placed hard stroke of the camel cane across his upturned buttocks. The exercise room echoed the stroke and the air whooshed out of the slave's lung.

'Do you understand now?' I said to him still in Arabic.

'Yes, Master' and he stayed in his position of obeisance.

Going to the far side of Jean-Pierre, I raised his head from the ground with the end of the camel-cane and had him look me in the eyes. There was curiosity and as well as a little apprehension. There was a lack of focus and a seeming unawareness of the punishment that his lack of attention had caused to the other slave. I did not utter a word. He did not know who I was from Adam. I put the camel cane to the back of his neck and pushed his head and neck back towards the position of obeisance on the floor.

I took the measure of my distance from Jean-Pierre and gave his fleshy buttock the full force of a single stroke of the camel cane. The result was instantaneous. He gave a shout and brought a hand back to his caned backside. He came out of obeisance with his head to one side.

I walked to his side again and again raised his head with the camel cane, so that he was looking directly into my eyes. Now there was anger. Yes, anger and also a touch of fear. Was it fear of me or fear of the unknown? But now there was focus on his pain. Curiosity and apprehension had disappeared, yes, to be replaced by fear. Again, I put his head back on the floor with the tip of the camel cane.

'Get this slave to display immediately,' I ordered the supervising slave, who jumped to his feet and shouted 'display' at Jean-Pierre, it being one of the basic commands he would have learned.

Jean-Pierre went quickly to 'display'. I walked up to him. His eyes showed less anger and more fear. I walked around him and saw the red weal already forming across both cheeks of his backside. I let the camel cane slide down his back and linger over the weal.

'Now have this slave do a proper obeisance,' I ordered the supervising slave, who immediate shouted 'obeisance'. This time Jean-Pierre did it in one-third the previous time. I raised his head again and looked him in the eyes. I could not quite make out the signals his eyes were sending, so I put his head back on the floor and took up my measured position again.

My aim was true. The camel cane blurred in the air and the sound of lathe meeting skin reverberated in the exercise room. Jean-Pierre gave a strangled cry, but his hands stayed beside his head. He was learning that slaves did not move during punishment, nor seek to avoid a blow.

'Have the slave go to display.'

The supervising slave shouted the order, grateful I think he had not been the object of my further attention, or of the camel cane in my hand.

Jean-Pierre went speedily to 'display'. I stood before him. As he would have learned, he was looking into the middle distance, a single tear on his left cheek. I put the camel cane to the side and back of his head and had him look me in the eyes yet again. He was blinking hard trying to hold rein on further tears. Now there was focus in his eyes, the focus of fear, the focus of pain, of humiliation, of obedience, the focus on what the unknown held for him. All of that and more, in the dilated pupils of his eyes.

Still looking into his Jean-Pierre's eyes, I said to the supervisor, `Now tell this slave to made obeisance.'

The supervisor shouted and in a mere fraction of the first time and in half the second time, the slave Jean-Pierre Fournier made a perfect obeisance.

I walked out of the exercise room without even looking down at him.

On the second visit, ten days later, Jean-Pierre's obeisance was instantaneous when I arrived. He required no instruction. Admitted he was not exercising at the time and in his eyes, there was the focused apprehension of hope that what he had done was correct and immediate. I saw him swallow in his nervousness, even a trickle of perspiration on the side of his head.

By this stage, I would have guessed that he knew I must be his new Master. As to whom I was, I could not be too sure, though the slave dealer had said to me, my name was never mentioned in any form or fashion within his hearing. Even if it had been, I doubted it would have meant anything. In his precious drug-related life, he would have been too engrossed in himself to care anything about his father's circumstances, let alone about his father's employer.

As I had not taken Ben's virginity as my droit de seigneur on the night he had spent in my bed, Food and Drink did not take him either during his initial training. At the end of his thirty-day induction into the Lime Palace, he was my playmate for that particular night and I played his body like a violin for over three hours.

When he finally lay in my arms, his virginity taken, he moved closer to me and kissing me on the forehead, he said, 'Thank you, Master, for tonight and for everything.'

He put his arms around me and promptly fell asleep. So much for a slave being attentive to the needs of the Master!

However, for each of the following nights for a full week, Ben Trant was in my bed and I was his lover. He had cried the first time he was broken and in taking him I was gentle-- at least, I thought so. And on each of the subsequent nights, he lost his reserve and his inhibitions about raising the roof with his shouts, when in the throes of being taken, not just by me, but by Komil. Towards the end of the week, he said to me, one night when we lay in each others' arms, 'I never ever imagined, Master, sex could be so beautiful.'

I said to him, 'Is that the truth?' and he laughed.

End of Chapter 16