Dahran

This is the eighteenth 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 18 - The Auction

Aziz al-Aziz, my head of household, mentioned to me that with the completion of his residence he needed quite a number of jobs to be finished around his new property and was thinking having Mamoud and Mehmed, his two new slaves, do the work. The two had had just finished transplanting my four acres of cactus plants to their new location at the Lime. While in theory they would have continued looking after my hobby at its new location, this bit of news, meant I would have to get some other slaves to do it.

Having had no success less than two months previously with my two heads of stables in suggesting the re-deployment of slaves to be water-guys, I rang the slave dealer at the auction rooms at al-Mera and asked him to send me on his catalogue for his next auction - on the Thursday of the following week - effectively ten days away.

Al-Mera is the further away of the two deep sea ports from the capital city and so as not to have a single appointment, I set up two banking appointments as well for the mid-morning and the midday -- a container company wanted to expand its facilities. While I normally would have one of the juniors look at a ten million euro investment, there was no reason why I could not do it myself. The other appointment would be a courtesy call on a good existing client of the Bank.

On the Thursday in question, Faisal, my new driver, had me speeding down the coast road well in time for the first appointment.

'Faisal, slow down, we'll get there far too early.'

'Yes, Sir Jonathan' and the limousine dropped an appreciable ten miles an hour and moved into a slower lane.

Strange as it may seem, with Faisal driving me to the Bank and back each morning and evening for an hour, since taking over from his uncle in February, we had not actually spoken at length. Normally, I have such a volume of papers to go through, that two hours' homework each day -- one hour each way -- that I just about keep abreast of matters.

Today, I appeared to be ahead of myself, so looking at the back of Faisal's well groomed neck, I said, `Faisal, how are you settling into the job?'

'Very happily, Sir Jonathan.'

I had seen him flitting about the Bank on various occasions and being sent to make the `hand document' deliveries -- he had actually done some for me.

'And your apartment at the Lime Palace?'

'It is more than I deserve, Sir Jonathan. It is a beautiful apartment. I already have my former taxi paid off.'

His apartment was rent free and like the other overseers, he ate at the Palace either with them or in his apartment itself being served by one of the slaves, so there were no real outlays in his lifestyle. Also I had got the impression that he was always there at weekends.

'Is one of the slaves looking after you well?'

'Yes, indeed. Mansur is most attentive.'

I had to do a recap and it clicked in my memory that Mansur was one of the Chechens, bought in a batch, when Chechens were going cheap at al-Qatim.

'Is he only attentive, Faisal. I thought the slave was to be more than that.'

'Yes, Sir Jonathan, he is all of that. He is attentive and keeps my apartment perfectly and then each evening he shares my bed. I fuck him on his back every night and on his hands and knees every morning. He is now used to my ways.'

I got a hint of something and was not sure of what Faisal was actually saying.

'Was he not well trained, Faisal? Or did you have to tell him what you wanted?'

This was one of the problems that I had at the back of my mind that our training of the slaves in sexual techniques was inadequate. I am a firm believer that sex has great therapeutic power like sleep or tears. If a slave is not being well exercised in sex, this happiness will atrophy just, as if your own legs are not well exercised, they will really and truly hurt when put through their paces.

'Sir Jonathan, it is not for me to complain.'

'Faisal, it is not a complaint. I am just very interested to know. It is no reflection on you and I am not going to punish the slave if he was not fully attentive to your needs from the very beginning.'

'Sir, I love sex with men. I told you that when we first spoke. I take a very dominant role. I always have. Mansur did not understand that at the beginning and I think -- I know -- that he had not been seriously fucked before he was in my bed.'

Faisal had to interrupt his talking, as there were a number of lorries to be overtaken on the road.

This was precisely the problem that I feared we were having with the new farm slaves who had come in over the past six months.

If it were the case of the farm slaves, who would know or should know what was what about sex between a slave and a Master, or between a slave and a friend of the Master's whom the slave has to sexually serve, then I would bet that our European Union prisoner-slaves had not been 'seriously fucked' to use Faisal's own words.

If they had not been 'seriously fucked' then they had not been seriously trained and the slave that was not seriously trained would sooner or later cause problems in submissiveness and full acceptance of my authority as Master.

I felt a trickle of perspiration on my left brow, a clear sign of worry in my case. We now had at last count, if memory served well, some two hundred and fifty or so of the prisoner-slaves.

The lorries had been passed. The road ahead was now clear again.

'So, Faisal, how did you resolve the problem.'

'The Master will not be annoyed if I tell you.'

'The Master will be annoyed I can assure you, Faisal, if you do not tell me.'

'Sir Jonathan, when Mansur did not take up his position quickly on my bed, I think it was on my third evening at the Palace, I waited until he did and then tied his hands to the top of the bed and then his feet up beside his hands and left him there for an hour.'

'For an hour? Why, Faisal?'

'Because Master, Mansur is a good slave, but he was not focussed on what was his duty which was to be fully attentive to my needs, which at that moment were my sexual needs. I did not want to do anything while I was annoyed, much less while I was slightly angry.'

'And what did you do then?'

I was quite frankly intrigued at my driver's approach to the problem.

'I went, Sir Jonathan and spoke with overseer Greg and borrowed a dildo from him and a camel cane. I do not want to get overseer Greg into trouble, sir.'

'He is not in any trouble, at all, Faisal.'

'When I got back to my apartment, Mansur was still as I had left. I did not say a word. I lubricated the dildo and inserted it in his back passage which was exposed to me, pushing it in right up to the hilt. I put my handkerchief in his mouth and then, Sir Jonathan, I flogged his backside until my arm was tired. I had said to myself that I would stop, if I either became angry or if Mansur's skin broke. But as I was swinging the camel cane hard, but not with the full force of my arm, I think I would have flogged him some fifty times, as there were only welts on his backside and the skin did not break at all.'

I listened in awe to what Faisal had said. My quiet, obedient, submissive driver knew how to handle a non-attentive slave.

'What did you do when you had finished?'

'I took out the dildo, Sir Jonathan. His hole was totally pliable and I undid the bindings. I brought Mansur into the shower in my apartment and washed him all over. When I had dried him and myself off, I told him to kneel on the bed as he would in the morning for me and he did so immediately. I left him there while I returned the cane and the dildo to overseer Greg and then I came back and fucked Mansur not one, but twice.'

'And you have had no problem with Mansur since?'

'No Master. When I fucked him for the second time that night, he thanked me and said, I would never have to beat him again.'

We drove the rest of the way to al-Mera in silence and I pondered on the fact that wisdom can arrive on your doorstep from the most unlikely of sources.

It was obviously fair day, as they say, at the slave-market in al-Mera. Faisal was going to queue to leave me up at the door of the auction rooms. I got out telling him to find parking in the ample car bays and I walked between line and line of the latest models and their owners sitting in their air-conditioned limousines waiting to be dropped at the door itself, not two hundred paces away.

I had not seen the al-Mera slave-dealer for some months, as my more recent purchases had been at al-Qatim the nearer of the sea-ports. He was solicitude itself and had received my gift of the bronze racing horse at full gallop.

Clearly, a lot of people had already arrived and were still arriving. The dealer was being pulled in all directions so I let him be and get on with the pressing of the flesh of his other clients.

His assistant was up to me in a flash exchanging the catalogue I had received for a more updated one. The auction rooms were becoming more professional, no more of extra slaves being put on display without their particulars being circulated to the clients.

'Any more slaves here for two months whom you can't sell?'

The assistant blushed deeply under his sallow skin as I made him recall his comment to my nephew Jack about the Romanian gypsy slaves Vedel and Beno Vesh.

'My uncle has told me never to say that again, Sir Jonathan.'

'I'll bet you he has,' I laughed and imagined the rollicking he must have taken 'but you did sell two slaves to my nephew.'

'Yes, Sir Jonathan, they were my very first two sales on my own.'

I could not help, but laugh at his seriousness in a very serious business.

'Your uncle, you say?'

'Yes, Sir Jonathan, my mother's brother. I am learning the trade. I am the twenty ninth direct generation' he said with a flash of pride in his eyes, half glancing over at me.

'You have not answered my question and rather skilfully so. How many slaves do you have here left over for the past two months?'

'Please, Sir Jonathan, if my uncle even hears me speaking about that he said he will sell me as a slave.'

'I somehow doubt that. How many?'

'Just one, Sir Jonathan.'

'And how many here for a month?'

'For around a month, sir, I think about six. Not more than that. They were bought, but the owner could not complete the sale. They are in the catalogue again today.'

'And your two month hand-me-down?'

'No, Sir Jonathan, he is a poor specimen and he is definitely not in today's catalogue.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rashid al-Akhri and a number of affluent-looking men around him - with the slave-dealer dancing attendance. There seemed to be some sort of argument going on and clearly Rashid was not having any counter-argument being put to what he was saying and with that he, the slave-dealer and the group went through one of the side doors.

'So what is in today's catalogue? I am looking for two gardeners or, at the worst, two farm-workers.'

'We have twenty six Central Asians who are a mixed bag of ex-military, factory and farm workers, some Americans from Texas, a pair to twins from Slovakia, some Russians. That is it, I think, Sir Jonathan. I do not think we actually have a gardener, but I will check the computer immediately.'

'No, that is fine. What is your name?'

'Mustafa, Sir Jonathan. Like my uncle.'

'Show me in the catalogue which are the farm workers from Central Asia.'

Mustafa quickly pointed out the five or six of the farm workers. Really anyone of them would have done for what I had in mind. I would check the half dozen at my leisure.

'Now show me your two month old.'

'Sir Jonathan, my uncle will do what he promised. You do not know his temper.'

'Mustafa you do not know mine. Imagine what will be your fate if I tell your uncle that from now on I shop only at al-Qatim.'

He swallowed hard and led me off towards the same door through which Rashid al-Akhri and his group had gone. It led into a very large holding room where those who would be brought on for auction were standing. The Slovak twins were easily identifiable. They were blond and fair and quite identical with arms wrapped round one another, one of them crying quietly on the shoulder of the other.

As we walked through the room, there was an alcove to one side with two curtains pulled across, but not quite joining in the middle. It is quite amazing what the eye can capture in all of one or two seconds.

Across what for all the world looked like a low trestled vaulting horse there was the very large white figure of a slave, his legs splayed wide and fastened to two of legs of the vaulting horse, his arms tightly manacled to the forward legs. The slave's face was towards the curtains and I could see some form of brank in his mouth forcing it wide open and something else by way of gag in the mouth itself.

The slave was very large with fair colouring, some tan, as if an outdoor worker, but with a tan line and white legs belying any form of indolent and nude times on a beach. The instant impression was of a man at least six foot six, but with shoulders over three feet wide and muscular arms which would have put a bodybuilder to shame.

As I passed, the gaping mouth gave a gargle and the cause was clear. Between his splayed legs, a fully naked Rashid al-Akhri was standing, or more accurately pistoning his body backwards and forwards. I had never seen the man in the nude before, but, because of his bulk, had thought him somewhat fat. That was my mistaken impression.

Rashid al-Akhri was solid muscle and sinew. Muscle did not end with his limbs. His penis was all of ten inches of solid meat of a girth which I did not care to reflect on and he was in the process of impaling the bound slave with his manhood, pulling out almost to the point of full withdrawal and then slamming into the bowels of the slave again. That was the gargle I had heard. All of this in less than two seconds as we passed by.

Neither Rashid nor his party had seen me. He was slightly turned away from me and he was not wearing his glasses.

The assistant dealer Mustafa led me on and we passed out of the holding room through two more doors and over two some form of holding cell where an individual slave was on a pallet with his back to us facing the wall - sleeping for all intents and purposes in the cool of the cell area.

Mustafa shouted something at the sleeping slave; my mind did not catch it as it was still full of the naked Rashid raping the giant of a slave on the trestle vault and the sound of a voice-box that could not vocalise a scream of pain or objection.

The figure on the bed pallet jumped up at Mustafa's shout and made a full obeisance, as Mustafa slid open the door of the cell. Ah, well trained at least!

When ordered the slave got to his feet. His looked about thirty five and if Donnie the water guy from Luton had spindly legs, this guy's legs looked like a mosquito's they were so thin. He had a full head of black hair and the makings of a five o'clock shadow. His arms were well-muscled for his five foot seven or eight size. I opened his mouth and his teeth...well, let us just say that his teeth would require attention.

I turned him round and ran my hand down his back. I had been fooled once or twice by not doing it before and discovering subsequently the well beaten backs of slaves who either had run foul of a bad overseer, or had given a bad overseer reason to run foul of them. This slave's skin was reasonably smooth, with no obvious bruises or welts.

I told him in Arabic to get up on the bed and bend forward. This he understood. I had at this stage not asked his nationality. He knew how to bend and spread and his hands even came back to pull the cheeks of his backside apart.

His hole had been used, but not extensively. It was tight, but not virgin tight. I put in a finger. There was some excrement and detritus inside, but that did not stop me from examining for polyps, growths, piles or haemorrhoids of which he had none.

I pulled out my finger. There was some body waste on it. I waited until the slave had turned round and then put the dirty finger to his mouth. He immediately opened his mouth and licked my finger clean of his own waste. A well trained slave, indeed!

'Why has he not sold?'

'I am not sure, Sir Jonathan. He just does not look proportioned.'

Looking at the slave. I thought the assistant dealer had a point.

'What is you name?' I asked the slave in Arabic.

'Georgi Gridov, Master.'

'And where are you from?'

He surprised me by saying 'from Tbilisi in Georgia, Master'.

'You speak Arabic well.'

'I have been here since I was since sixteen, Master.'

'I am looking for a slave to look after my gardens or work on my farm.'

I let the statement hang. It did not hang long.

'It would be my privilege, Master, to look after your gardens or work on your farm, Master.'

Two Masters in one sentence. Indeed, a well trained slave!

To the assistant slave-dealer, I said 'Well, Mustafa, have you made your first sale today yet?'

He swallowed hard again, as I saw he did when under pressure.

'No, Sir Jonathan.'

'What are you looking for the slave?'

'Whatever you offer, Sir Jonathan, will be more than fair.'

'Shall we say fifteen then?'

'Indeed, Sir Jonathan.'

'What are you going to tell your uncle?'

He smiled and said 'that the house of Mustafa no longer has a two-month backlog.'

There was hope for the assistant dealer yet.

I looked at the slave and ran my hand through his hair and gave his head a rub.

'We shall speak at my Palace.'

The look of sheer delight at having a new owner was summed up in his smile and Georgi Gridov dropped to his knees with his head on the ground and put my foot on the back of his head in an Olympic two second sprint.

The transaction had not taken more than five minutes and we walked back towards the main viewing room. As we passed the curtained alcove, I saw briefly that Rashid had now moved to the other end of the table and was fucking the slave's mouth. The slave was clearly in distress because Rashid's member had lost none of its length or girth and from my angle of view was being pumped in at least eight or nine inches. I do not think the brank was allowing the full member to go into the mouth of the slave. One of the slave's legs was red and I realised that it was blood, as if Rashid member had been wiped on it.

The inward thrust was cutting off the slave's air-supply, because on the two hip thrusts I observed in those fleeting seconds, the slave convulsed and every muscle in his chained down physiognomy screamed its plea for a ceasing of the mouth rape.

We were past the alcove before more could be observed. That vulgar scene of sheer brutality, so in keeping with Rashid's reputation and cruelty would put a more delicate stomach off any auction. But I had business to do and business that could not be ignored.

The slaves for auction were for their most part now marshalled onto the various raised platforms. I wandered round again to look at one or two of the Central Asians and they appeared to be okay. Nothing special. Capable slaves, I would presume, in time, with some training.

The two Slovak twins were attracting some attention, simply because they were blond in colouring. Their hair was that almost blond white colour which sometimes comes from long summer stints on beaches. But I think they were attracting attention simply because they were twins. They were twenty five years old and instead of four pages in the catalogue there were two pages of written data and four pages of photos.

I tried to see what differences there were in body and could see none. It may seem stupid, but I looked closely at the photos of their anuses and could actually see not a whit of difference. The dealer was claiming virginity in that category and their pink tightness might just have supported that claim fully.

The two twins were standing there composed. Every so often, when not on display, one would touch the hand of the other. Then the other would look at the first. The word `symbiotic' came to mind, living with and for the other. A Fate weaving the thread of life could not be as cruel as to ever want to separate them. I wondered.

The dealer came alone in through the side door and looked a decidedly unhappy man. Normally, he would take the microphone and walked those clients present first through the general batches and then onto the good points of each slave, getting the auction under way quickly for the bidders.

Today, however I noticed that he signalled over Mustafa his nephew and after a minute's confabulation, the nephew who had just sold me the slave took up the microphone and got the auction underway.

The dealer went up into his office which overlooked the auction area. My Central Asians were well down the catalogue, so I went over and up the steps into the dealer's office.

'You are not taking the auction to day, my friend?'

The dealer was taking a drink of fruit juice, his back to me. He gave a slight jump and spun round towards me.

'Ah, Sir Jonathan. No. My nephew needs the training and the experience.'

'Or you, Mustafa my friend, need to recover your composure after what happened back in the alcove. I only saw what happened, but do not understand why.'

Mustafa took another glass of the fruit juice.

'One of my best slaves for today's auction has been ruined. Rashid al-Akhri came today to buy him and I told him that the price would be high as the slave has not only had a superb body, but was also a virgin where it matters for many buyers. He insisted on checking that the slave was a virgin and would not accept our own medical proofs. Finally, he said, for twenty five thousand euro, he would personally check the virginity of the slave at both ends. I said, the slave was due to get make almost twice that and he said, if the slave were a virgin, he would pay the expected sale price.'

Mustafa stopped to get his breath.

I could not resist, but ask 'And?'

'Now Rashid al-Akhri is saying that maybe the slave was not a virgin in the first place as he did not scream when he was being taken and that he is not worth any price. He could not scream as Rashid put a device in the slave's throat to stop him making any sound at all. This auction is a disaster!'

'Will Rashid pay you the twenty five thousand?

'Yes, that he already has. Now, I have a slave who is ruined and who is going to require the attention of a doctor. Rashid al-Akhri is built like a bull with a temper to match.'

'I will take the slave and pay you the balance of what you were expecting.'

Mustafa looked at me for a moment and said, 'We are taught, Sir Jonathan, to be merciful. This is a merciful act.'

'Why did Rashid do this?'

'Why, Sir Jonathan, because he can. Quite simply, because he can.'

That is how I came to own the German slave, Dieter Schaffer.

'Come, Mustafa, let us see how your nephew is getting on.'

As we walked down to the auction floor, I smiled to myself realising that that I now had my pair of gardeners -- one a German giant of a slave and the other a spindly Georgian - and once again could forget about the Central Asians. At that moment, Rashid and his party walked into the auction area talking loudly and causing a flicker of disruption on the surface of the social and business pond. They all took fruit juices or soft drinks from a passing slave.

The slave-dealer signalled another slave over and I found myself sipping from a flute of very nicely chilled Veuve Cliquot champagne.

I had been perusing the catalogue and spotted something, which rang a bell in my memory. When the bidding came up on two Kazakh slaves, no one was really interested in the two and I got them for a song at nineteen thousand and twenty thousand respectively. They looked reasonable and at a push could help the water-guys on a bad day.

Now I have said it before and ad nauseam to friends, never ever bid at an auction for what you don't really want and don't let auction madness take over. Ever!

But that is easier said than done. The champagne, even though it was a single flute, did not help. Well, if the truth be told, a flute and a half as I was given something of a refill when I was looking towards the other side of the room.

The nephew had the auction going well. I do not really know why I stood there listening to the bidding on the various slaves and then it happened.

The Slovak twins were put on the central dais and one of Rashid al-Akhri party said something to another of the party and they all laughed.

They were being sold as a pair. The bidding started with a suggested offer at forty thousand euro from Mustafa. It was double the price of what one might have expected for one ordinary slave. No one took the opening offer up for a couple of seconds and then one of Rashid's party was in. A second bid came from across the room. A second member of Rashid's party was into the fray. The bids were rising by the thousand and quickly.

Normally, at least at the slave auctions I have attended, one or two bidders are in at any one time bid. Rarely three or four. People are bidding for slaves not for chairs. Different bidders come in and then drop out.

Here, it was no different except that the first three bidders were still in at fifty five thousand and climbing. I looked at the two Slovaks. They were at 'display' as we say in the business, hands behind the nape of the neck, chest and hips stuck out depending on the training. The two realised that something was going on. None of the other auctions had gone on this long.

Mustafa was playing the three bidders like a xylophone -- a finger here, a finger there, a nod here, a nod over there, to indicate the direction of the bid. No rush. No sudden jumps. Cool, calm, collected and building up an excitement in the room that was becoming palpable.

At sixty five thousand euro, it became electric and one of the two in Rashid al-Akhri's party bailed out with a shake of his head. The other was no longer laughing. In fact, in the room, no one was. There was a deadly silence between the bids and Mustafa's evenly modulated voice. I caught a glimpse of the bidder on the other side of the room, a man in Arab dress whom I did not recognise either.

The bidding faltered at seventy being bid by the man beside Rashid. The unknown man across the room pulled out with a shake of his head.

I looked at the two Slovak twins. Each had one hand now behind their necks still at 'display', but the other hand was touching its twin's fingers.

I cleared my throat and said 'seventy five'.

I felt anger that anyone of Rashid's party who had so enjoyed the rape of the slave in the back room would even enjoy the vision let alone the body of either of the two blond Slovaks.

The bid was countered by a seventy six from my `opponent' as I felt him to be at that moment.

For the first time, Rashid al-Akhri appeared to notice my presence in the auction rooms, but it was in my peripheral vision. My eyes were on the auctioneer when I bid eighty.

Pins dropping, feathers floating to the ground, motes in the air, all could have made louder sounds.

My braggadocio opponent came back with eighty five and looked to his friends with a smile that was bemused and false at the same time.

Mustafa was looking at me. In fact, the entire room was looking at me, bidders, staff and the slaves on the raised platforms.

I took my time. I took a quaff of the champagne and said 'one hundred thousand.'

There was a collective whoosh as air was sucked in between narrowed lips. As in a tennis match, every pair of eyes transferred across the room, where my opponent and counter-bidder was already shaking his head.

In best Rotheby's style, Mustafa said, `at one hundred thousand euro to Sir Jonathan Martin, going once, going twice, gone' and his finger tapping the microphone once was as definitive as any Sloane Street gavel.

I had not heard of applause at any auction of slaves, but there was a polite round of applause and heads nodded in my direction.

I finished the champagne and walked, looking neither right nor left, into the office to pay for my new slaves and to get some fresh air as quickly as possible.

The slave-dealer was waiting for me. An assistant materialised with six folders. The bill by my reckoning was one hundred and seventy four thousand euro. I took out three Bank drafts for twenty five thousand each which I had already prepared for the estimated price of three -- at the most -- top of the range gardeners. Now I was paying for a farm labourer, two former army privates from Central Asia, two twins who did heaven knows what - for I certainly did not know what - and a Georgian which the market would not buy. It was an afternoon of slave purchasing madness and I thanked my stars that Aziz, my head of household, was not there to bring me back to earth with one of his glances.

I had taken out my chequebook as I was accustomed to do to pay the balance not covered by the Bank drafts, when the slave-dealer, seeing the three drafts, said 'Sir Jonathan, a balance cheque of eighty thousand will be sufficient.'

He must have seen my upraised eyebrow.

'Let us say that it is a discount for the pleasure that the latter part of the afternoon has given me.'

We agreed that the slaves would be the first to be delivered that evening and I left by the dealer's side door so as not to go back into the auction rooms and have to meet either Rashid or see his party.

When I got back to the Lime Palace, I had Bob go find Aziz, my head of household and I sent Food off to look for Yuriy Obov, my stables manager at the Aloe Palace and have him report to me as a matter of urgency. Food went off on the double down the mile road to the Aloe Palace and I dispatched Drink to find Radek, the assistant farm overseer who had just returned with his team from the fields and was somewhere around the Palace.

Radek was the first to arrive, closely followed by Aziz. I told Aziz to have twelve buddies ready for the arrival of six new slaves.

As always, he was not fazed at the order. Had I said two hundred, I think his self-controlled nature would have still held sway.

As Bob was standing around I told him to apprise Dr. Fournier of an injured slave about to arrive and to be prepared to have the slave overnight in the hospital ward. Bob looked at me and then scurried away with his message to be delivered.

Flavio, the cook, had come out at this point and as there is no precise time that slave deliveries can be timed from al-Mera, given the distance and the odd traffic delay, I said, the medical staff and I plus three of the overseers would be eating this evening. I am of the private opinion that Flavio has recipes up his sleeve, that is if slaves had sleeves, for every combination of numbers. He merely murmured `Yes, Master' and was off about his business.

The slaves had already eaten their dinner and were still sitting in the courtyard. Though they were just under six hundred in number sitting on the now cooling paving stones, the courtyard is quite large enough to accommodate all and at the same time allow for a reasonable buzz of conversation.

Those at my dinner table on the veranda seemed to know that something was either up or if not up, at least on my mind, as I was playing with my food. The meal was delightful, a cold gazpacho type soup with croûtons, breast of chicken in sorrel, a potato and celeriac purée and plain homemade vanilla cream which is Marko's speciality.

We were just starting on the ice-cream when the Transit delivery van arrived. The new sensors had alerted both Yuriy and Aziz as their wristwatch type monitors vibrated on their wrists as soon as the van had entered the Palace grounds off the main road to the west.

We walked through the milling slaves. I saw the three water-guys together and ruffled Gary's hair as I was now wont to do, thinking that I must have his body in my bed for another long session. He seemed to read my thoughts because he looked down at his rising erection. That is one slave with a fast response time!

The van had now entered the end of the courtyard and Aziz took receipt of the deliveries and the six tan folders-files. The two new Slovak slaves were helping the German giant down from the back of the van and I motioned to his two appointed buddies. They had been apprised of his condition and were already leading him off to the surgery and Dr. Fournier.

The Slovaks went to holding hands with each other and standing close. The courtyard was totally quiet looking at their mirror images.

Georgi came out of the van fearfully and perked up when he saw me and just stood there between his two minders.

Finally, the two Kazakhs came out of the van and blinked in the early evening light. Yuriy was standing to my left. One of the Kazakhs caught sight of him and there was utter consternation registered on his face. He caught his fellow Kazakh by the arm with a shout and pulled him in front of Yuriy, spouting something I presumed in Kazakh, and standing at attention, bollocks naked at the edge of the courtyard, they saluted.

Years of military service were engrained in Yuriy because he automatically returned the salute and he then recognised one of the two Kazakhs and with unintelligible roars they were in each others arms doing a frenzied St. Vitus dance of some sort.

The entire courtyard was immobilised as one of Yuriy's former privates leapt around with his former Captain. Finally, they realised that they were the only ones making noise and sheepishly, Yuriy looked at me and said, `Sorry, Master, may I present former Private Boris Mikailovich Kazia.'

As it was evening, I replied in Arabic, `Delighted to meet you Private' which the private, of course, did not understand, but Yuriy said something very quickly and he himself dropped to the ground and touched his head to the ground and the two ex-army privates dropped to their knees and following his example touched theirs to the ground.

Georgi Gridov seeing this did likewise.

Radek, the Czech assistant overseer, was beside me and I motioned him over to the two Slovaks whose language in its spoken format is interchangeable with Czech.

'Radek, ask them if they are going to give me any trouble.'

Radek walked behind the two Slovak and put a hand on a shoulder of each and pushed them to their knees. They were still holding hands.

He asked them very quietly the question I had posed. There was a vigorous shaking of heads. Something else was said by Radek with a nod in Georgi's direction whose bum was still up in the air and forehead on the ground. Suddenly, they had shuffled forward and two perfectly formed Slovak bums were in the air and foreheads to the ground.

Radek said something else and one by one the two twins took my foot and put on the nape of their necks. I noticed that Radek was smiling, with his hands on their backsides pushing them forward towards my feet and I could not swear if he had or not a finger in each of their cracks, but it looked that way to me. From his smile, I would have hazarded a guess that it was so.

There was another rapid fire exchange between Radek and the twins, as they looked up at me.

'They say, Master, that they are both virgins and want to be in your bed as soon as they are trained in how to please you.'

I looked at Radek and I said with a smile, 'Tell them their training starts tomorrow, that is if, Radek, you have not already started it tonight.'

His grin betrayed him.

All in all, a day that started well with business, that soured with a violent rape, now suddenly seemed a lot better that the Palace had some new faces and even prettier backsides. The Slovaks' buddies came forward to take charge of their cares.

'Georgi, how long are you going to stay on the ground?'

Georgi the Georgian had not budged an inch out of his obeisance. He half looked up and half around. I pointed his buddies out to him. They took him in hand. He was a good slave and knew how to make an impression, even if he had the spindliest legs that I ever saw.

End of Chapter 18