Dahran

This is the twenty first 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 Dahran Way

Chapter 21 The importance of business

Mustafa ben-Mustafa

The owner of the slave auction rooms at al-Mera was Mustafa ben-Mustafa, the twenty-eighth generation of his family to be in Dahra's slave trade. I got on quite well with him and with his counterpart in al-Qatim and to tell the truth, over the years had come to rely on him. He was a quiet man in many ways, smallish, but not overweight, always impeccably dressed in the spotless white gallabiya or thoub of the country and almost always wearing, a plain unadorned black ogal headband, which so many professionals seemed to prefer.

Although his nephew of the same name, Mustafa, had said to me on one occasion that his uncle had a temper, I have never seen it, though I had seen him upset at the mistreatment of what was now one of my best and most hard working of slaves -- Dieter Schaffer.

I met Mustafa and his counterpart at a financial services trade show in the capital city in early to mid-July. Gustav Ahlson and I and now that Colin Bowman, now that he was with us as a junior partner, took turns with the trade shows, which were now one at least every two weeks and partly the fault of Deckhams, my bank, which through the management of the almost one third of the Sheikdom's financial resources, had put Dahra on the map as a financial services centre.

I walked into the Financial Services Trade Show and saw a mass of heads and bodies. It was like Piccadilly at rush hour! I was just thinking that it was going to be one of those days, when I heard a voice at my elbow, say `Sir Jonathan, delighted to see you.'

It was Mustafa ben-Mustafa.

I tend to say any port in a storm,' any piece of driftwood when you're drowning' and I was drowning before I was even three feet into the shark-infested waters of the trade show.

`Mustafa, delighted to see you as well! Delighted! Where are these crowds of people coming from? What is being offered in financial services that all these people need? There was not this crowd here last year.'

`Ah, Sir Jonathan, business is prospering in Dahra. That is the simple reason. But perhaps, we should avoid the throng entirely. Let me invite you to our private suite.'

I readily agreed and was pleasantly surprised to find myself whisked up a floor and into a carpeted and batik-lined suite with comfortable chairs and two servants, already picking up trays of drinks as we entered through the door. My eye automatically flicked to their bare feet and right ankles where there was the slave bracelet of titanium.

The flute of a light sparkling white wine -- Italian Asti -- I thought, was just perfect. I had kept my hand on the arm of the serving slave while I tasted it. He was a pleasant looking tanned individual in his late twenties to early thirties. I tasted the wine again and breathed in its light aroma.

Thank you. That is perfect,' I said with a smile to the slave. You serve a perfect glass of wine.'

`Thank you, Master,' was the very accented reply in Arabic.

Mustafa was watching the little performance and smiled to me knowingly.

You still say thank you' to slaves, Sir Jonathan, I see.'

`It pays dividends at my Palaces, Mustafa, my friend. Well, perhaps that and giving each slave a gold necklace when they are out of training.'

`Ah, yes, I have heard of this. That not make you the target of that terrible raid by bandits, did it not? At least, that is what rumour suggested. All I give the slave by way of decoration is the titanium GPS bracelet.'

`I have always meant to ask. How good is the GPS bracelet?'

`I am not a computer person, Sir Jonathan, I would have to ask my nephew Mustafa for details, but I know that the bracelet itself merely sets off alarms at the police headquarters in the capital city and at the nearest police station if it goes outside the specific given radius coded into the computer and also when any of Dahra's borders are approached within three miles.'

`There is a two-mile prohibited zone around the airport. Any Master, who wishes his chauffeur to drive him there has to apply for a special permit, but the slave is not allowed to enter the building and would be intercepted at any attempt to do so. The airport police monitor every authorized signal entering the zone. Anyway, no slave bracelet could ever pass the airport security check undetected.'

`It is the same with the harbour police and the coastguard. You know that our establishment is situated more than two miles from the docks. When the satellite surveillance system was introduced, my family gave up our old auction rooms in the harbour area, which are now used for cargo delivery only and built the new auction rooms. A considerable investment, but one that offers space and comfort to our clients -- or so I hope.'

`It is always a pleasure to enjoy your hospitality, Mustafa. And when was the last time a slave escaped from Dahra?'

`Not in modern memory. Each year some three or four try to escape by sea or air -- over the deserts is impossible -- and they are executed. Also some five or so slaves simply disappear into the desert and are never found again, at least, that is what their owners claim.'

`But, Mustafa, should the satellite not be able to locate the bracelet even in the desert.'

`Sometimes that does fail. Bracelets have been found but not on legs, which means that feet have been cut off. By whom, I would not know. Also the bracelets do not work when too far underground and I am told that there are deep caves in some of the mountains.'

`What did you mean by executed?'

`The slaves, who try to escape from Masters within the country are merely brought before a court, if the Master so decides, or simply back to the Master for the Master to administer any punishment he thinks fit.'

I nodded remembering the case of my slave Frank Kovacs, who turned up in my outhouses having run away from Ahmed al-Karim, his former Master.

`But those, who try to pass the borders or board ships or planes are executed, as the slaves are told after their arrival.'

`After their arrival?'

`Every slave, Sir Jonathan, is shown at least one video of an execution. It requires little or no explanation and is the greatest deterrent that I know of for not running away. If you like I shall send you a video or two of what happens.'

I half-nodded in agreement, but I really felt like another drink after that piece of information and finished off the remaining half of my glass. Quick as a flash, the slave, who had served me earlier on was over with an open bottle to refill my glass.

I motioned to the slave to hunker beside my seat and as he sat on his heels, I started to massage the back of his neck. His skin was absolutely smooth and unblemished.

`Your own private stock, eh, Mustafa?'

`Zoran is yours, Sir Jonathan, for any price you offer.'

Zoran had not batted an eyelid as this conversation was taking place, though he could clearly understand what was being said and was, if anything, leaning back into my fingers as they touched and massaged his neck muscles.

`You would not mind loosing him, Mustafa?'

`I never ever get attached to any of my slaves, Sir Jonathan They are my business. I buy them. I sell them. That is all. Zoran here is very well trained and has been owned by me for two years and he has never given any trouble. Have you, Zoran?'

`No, Master,' was the quiet reply.

`By the way, Sir Jonathan, do you know you have started a new fashion?'

`Fashion?' I said alarmed.

`Yes. The in-thing now is for slaves without any body ornamentation. No tattoos, no rings, no metal. They are calling it the JM look.'

`What? Who?' -- now I was quite alarmed. It is quite one thing to own and retrain slaves without being regarded as some sort of fashion guru with ornamentation statements to make.

`Very simply, many slaves when bought now for household duties have to have all their tattoos and metallic ornamentation removed like Zoran. It is quite a side-line of the house.'

Addressing the slave, Mustafa said, `Zoran, stand up and let Sir Jonathan see you. Take off those clothes.'

Without the slightest hesitation, the slave stood up pulled off his open-necked shirt and shucked down his cream coloured shorts. He was indeed a beautiful specimen of slavehood. I knew that Mustafa was actually at that moment trying to sell him to me, as with one hand, he motioned the slave to turn round slowly.

Zoran's back and hips were just as beautiful as his front and the penis, which was coming out of a small forest of darkest black hair, curving out for about three inches and the dropping down another three. Beautifully proportioned, not just in his cock, but in his legs and thighs as well!

`State your price, Mustafa. You are the perennial salesman.'

`Shall we agree on thirty, Sir Jonathan,'

`A bit dear for a wine server, wouldn't you say, Mustafa?

`He could have many uses, my friend, many uses. Day or night or any time in between as I can attest myself. Just tickle him at the back of his balls.'

I looked up at Zoran, who was standing stock still. I slipped my fingers just behind his balls and gently stroked. His cock rose, as if on command from the curved to the right-angled to the perpendicular of his body, something, which is certainly possible in well trained hetero jocks in their early twenties seeing someone of the opposite sex, but hard to achieve in those in their early thirties as I would now more correctly be judging his age.

`I was going to say, twenty five, Mustafa, but after that erection maybe twenty six.'

`Let us split the difference and say twenty eight, Sir Jonathan.'

I started to laugh. Mustafa had me well and truly hooked and I could see that he loved nothing better than making a sale.

`Twenty eight it is.'

And that was how I came to own Zoran Stepkov, a former Macedonian accounts manager in a hotel. As he slipped back into his clothes and again knelt down beside me, hunkered down on the calves of his legs and heels, he whispered `Thank you, Master' and kept his eyes firmly on the ground ahead of him, when they were not on my glass of Asti. Truly a well-trained slave!

Mustafa ben-Mustafa was true to his word. Along with Zoran's delivery the next day, there came two short videotapes of the type routinely shown to new slaves after their GPS bracelets are put on. I retired to watch them alone in the video room. They were not examples of cinematographic finesse. They were the Dahran way of saying `No one here gets out alive.'

The initial sequence was a short animation showing a titanium bracelet spinning in front of a dark background. Abruptly, the image changed to a slave's bare legs. The camera zoomed in on his right ankle and a tool resembling a bolt cutter appeared, closing the bracelet with a `pop' that would still be ringing in the listeners' ears.

An image of the geosynchronous satellite ArabSAT IV serenely pursuing its orbit in tune with the rotation of the Earth appeared on the screen for several seconds.

The next cut was to a close-up of a pair of naked feet walking on sand. On the right ankle was the unmistakeable gleam of a titanium bracelet. The pace of the moving feet increased. The slave had started running across the desert. The brightness of the bracelet increased, while the rest of the image faded out. Soon only the shining circle remained visible. It shrunk and turned into a tiny lucent spot, moving very slowly across the screen.

In the background, a satellite image of what must have been Dahran desert landscape faded in. A great number of other bright spots appeared close to the first one. All were inside a green circle, some stationary, some slowly moving around, obviously indicating signals of slaves working on an extensive property.

Farther away, part of the country's coastline was visible, with an adjoining corridor on the inland side marked in red, which I took to be the three-mile exclusion zone. As the original gleaming spot moved towards the periphery of the green circle and crossed it, the sudden and very loud sound of an alarm bell startled me, making me jump.

The spot indicating the fugitive moved towards the coast and I steeled myself for further auditory stress, being proved right when the satellite signal got into the red corridor and promptly set off the sound of a siren.

The satellite image faded out. Only the luminous signal remained and turned into a bracelet again. It encircled the ankle of the distant naked figure kneeling in the middle of an otherwise empty courtyard. Very slowly, the camera approached. The slave's hands were cuffed behind his back. The camera zoomed in on his upper body. The face was invisible, his head resting on a wooden block.

Suddenly with a whoosh out of nowhere a gleaming blade appeared and severed the head from the shoulders in one powerful stroke. A fountain of blood rose from the arteries. The head fell down with a thump and rolled away, while the body slumped and came to lie on the ground beside the execution block.

Two more images followed in rapid succession: A close-up of the bloodied scimitar. A close-up of the bracelet on the dead slave's ankle. Then it was over.

The second video Mustafa had sent me was identical at the beginning, but the beheading was of a different slave in the same courtyard.

I realised now why there had been a shiver in the courtroom the day of my raiders' trial, when the Royal Scimitar of the Sheikdom had been placed on its dais. It had not been there as an ornament and although I would not swear to it, the scimitar in the executions looked remarkably like the one on the dais that day.

I also for the first time realised what was behind Jess Tollman's look when he was told the radius of his GPS bracelet would be changed on becoming Fiona Tuttle's driver.

On the evening of Zoran's delivery, his folder had said all his blood tests done only a week previously were back clear. I was still stunned after watching the two execution videos. My new slave was standing ready for me beside the bed next to Komil, whom I told that if he wanted to get another buddy for the night I he wished.

Zoran Stepkov was a delight in bed and out of it. The first night we retired I had been quite tired after the day and merely mentioned that to the slave.

There is no second agenda ever with Komil and giving Zoran a sharp smack on the buttocks told him to `Look after the Master well tonight or this goes down your throat in the morning' and he held his humungous cock up towards Zoran's face. The new slave's eyes just widened, not knowing what was going on.

I knew Komil and trusted his judgement to leave the new slave on his own with me for the night as being capable of giving me more enjoyment on his own than being monitored by another as well.

`Komil, don't frighten the new slave. I shall see you in the morning.'

`Good night, Master. May you sleep well after midnight,' he said with a smile to me and a narrowing of the eyes to Zoran.

We were standing beside the windows. The sun had sunk long ago into the desert, but its ray still caused those purple streaks in the far west, which is so typical of the Dahran skyline.

I let my arms rest around Zoran's shoulders to help him relax. I find that with new slaves, as indeed with skittish animals, touch is the great comforter and calmer of the spirit.

Zoran has a most beautiful body, which is gifted to the Mediterranean type with dark body hair that sits like a little crown over his cock, which is almost invariably at half-mast when their body is naked.

`When did you last ejaculate, Zoran?'

`Not for the past two weeks, Master?'

`Two weeks?'

`My former Master would not allow it. I had to be easily aroused for any new Master.'

While speaking, his eyes were downcast. I lifted his chin.

`In my household, Zoran, when you speak to me, or to my overseers you always look me or them in the eyes.'

`Yes, Master.'

`And you are allowed smile at least once a week.'

He looked confused and smiled a little as my weak joke took effect.

`Come closer and let me see your nipples and armpits.'

Zoran moved so that his right nipple was at my mouth and I licked it and sucked his small brown nub. I let my teeth touch and nip ever so lightly its brown skin. He shuddered.

`Sensitive?'

`Yes, Master, very sensitive since they were trained.'

`Trained?'

`Yes, Master, trained to be sensitive to serve a Master. You can bite them very hard if that pleases you, Master.'

I bit down on the nub of the right nipple and Zoran's back arched and his penis went to full erection. I had merely been playing gently with his left nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Now having released my bite on his right nipple, with my nails I squeezed hard. Zoran gasped as his body went rigid. My hand was on his erection whose cock head was now moist with the first drops of his natural precum lubricant. It was thick and viscous as I love it and with the side of my thumb I smoothed it over the skinned knob of his cock head and to the back of his corona. My nails were scraping the rough skin at the back of his cock ridge and he cried out. As I had not got back the results of the blood tests, which Yves Fournier would have done, there would be no penetrative sex that night.

I think had Zoran known me better that he would have tried to kiss me. I was just observing his pre-orgasmic tension. I found an ear and blew into it. He was looking at me and blinking. He wet his lips and I smiled at him as my fingers found their own way home and down to his smooth and totally hairless balls. As I stroked them with the tips of my fingers and let a finger wander back towards his perineum, Zoran brought his head closer to mine and closing his eyes, his lips came forward and forward until they touched mine like a hummingbird floating in the air.

The touch of Zoran's lips was more erotic than many another sexual act. They conveyed sensuality, sexuality, emotion and the sensations, which were flowing through his body on a path of no return.

`Do you know the punishment for kissing a Master without permission?'

His eyes flew open, a touch of fear at their edges.

`Close your eyes, Zoran.'

He obeyed, his eyelids fluttering, his breath held.

I answered my own question, `Two kisses at least from the Master'

And I kissed each of his eyelids.

`Open your eyes.'

The fear in his eyes had disappeared, but the apprehension was still there.

Zoran was desperately trying to please a new Master and did not know yet where the limits were.

I kissed each of his eyelids again.

`What has been the most difficult thing you have learned to do as a slave, Zoran?'

He swallowed. His eyes darted away. I put a finger on his chin and brought his eyes into range with my own. He swallowed again.

`To kiss a Master between the cheeks of his backside, Master.'

`You mean rimming is the most difficult sexual act for you?'

`Yes, Master.'

`Why?'

`Because it makes me feel less a man, Master.'

`Zoran, you are now a slave. Forget about what you felt as a freeman. That life is over. How long have you been a slave?'

I knew the answer already from his folder, but I wanted him to say it.

`About two and a half years, Master.'

`I have over six hundred slaves. I like to keep my slaves sexually fulfilled and happy. What would you say if your job at my Palaces was to please my slaves each night that way? To rim any slave, who asked to be rimmed?'

`If that is what the Master wants,' he replied having difficulty keeping his eyes on mine. The reply was not said with any degree of enthusiasm.

`Your job here Zoran is to do what I want, to please me. When I am not here to be pleased, your job is to please my overseers. Work as a wine-server is very limited in my Palaces. Now let me feel you kiss my back and down my spine.'

I turned over and let Zoran start kissing my shoulders. I told him how to kiss with his lips, the flat of his tongue, the tips of his tongue. I told him how to kiss with dry lips and with wet lips. I explained the difference of sensations to him. When he had covered all of my shoulder blades with his kisses. I asked him the question.

`Tell me, Zoran, does that make you feel less a man, kissing my shoulders?'

`No, Master. Not at all.'

`You have no difficulty kissing the skin of my back?'

`No, Master. Not in the least.'

`Now do precisely the same to both of my buttocks.'

Twenty minutes or so later, I half-turned resting on an elbow and asked `Are you having any difficulty in kissing my bums?'

`No, Master.'

`Not at all?'

`No, Master, not at all.'

`Now, raise my hips, separate the cheeks of my bum and tell me what you want to do.'

`What I want to do?'

`Yes.'

There was silence from behind me and I waited. I saw one of the pillows being pulled down and felt it being slipped under my hips, my legs being gently separated.

`Master, I would like to kiss you between your legs.'

`Proceed.'

I drifted off into that realm of relaxation, which is arrived at in the hands of a good masseur, or at the side of a lover whose warm body is a sexual stimulant and a relaxing comforter at one and the same time.

Then I felt dry lips kiss each centimetre of my crack from coccyx down to my anus and down my perineum to the back of my balls. On the way up, it was a wet kiss and on reaching my anus, the kiss transformed itself into the touch of a tongue, which circled my tightness and worked its way in towards the centre of my clenched sphincter muscle. I just lay there and soaked up the sensations.

When the tongue had finished its magic, I felt air blowing on the same spots, which had been kissed. There is a moment in all sexual interaction, which constitutes a natural pause. When it came I rolled over on my back and pulled Zoran toward me.

`Do you feel less a man now, Zoran?'

`No, Master, not with you.'

`Are you sure?'

`Yes, Master. I am sure.'

`One down, six hundred more to go!'

There was a flash of panic in Zoran's eyes and I could not help but burst out laughing at his natural reaction. For the first time, he really smiled himself.

I could only shake my head. I tell jokes so badly.

`Zoran, you are a valuable slave of my Palace. I am not going to have you waste your time kissing the backsides of slaves. The kisses you have given me this evening are the worst things I shall ask you to do sexually. You will have been told that you are to have a buddy for sex. Over the next month, see if you can find one here at the Palace. If not I shall find you one, but for the moment Komil will be your buddy each morning in the shower after I have taken my shower and I am assigning you to look after the care of part of this floor of the Palace.'

`Yes, Master. Thank you.'

There was a look of relief in his eyes

`Zoran, I am very tired, so I am just going to pull you off.'

He looked at me, not sure of what to say or do.

`Lie back, spread your legs so that I can tickle your balls as you like,,' which I started to do there and then.

`Master, I am confused. What do you want me to do?'

`Just lie back.'

`Master, you are going to pleasure me?'

`Yes. Now, stop talking.'

After two weeks' of sexual abstinence Zoran was in no way able to hold back on my stroking of his cock and in less than two minutes, his back was as arched as the Bridge of Sighs in Venice. By this stage, I was between his legs, my knees and thighs were under his body keeping it aloft whenever it dropped toward the bed.

His cry of ejaculation started like the whispering noise of a train in the distance and as it approached his body went into near paroxysm and the guttural noise of approaching release continued like a long operatic final note, enthralling, captivating.

Zoran's spunk was abundant, as he shot and shot and shot up the length of his body, even onto his face. When his paroxysm, as I would term it, had finished, there was a sheen of perspiration all over his body.

He focused his eyes on me.

`Master, I thought I was here to please you, not the other way round. No one, absolutely no Master, has ever, ever done that to me the way you have made me come.'

`Zoran, can we take up this conversation in the morning.'

`Yes, Master.'

The last I remember of that night was Zoran Stepkov's warm body up against me and his lips on my neck.

I felt that, in time, he would adjust well to Palace life and I was not mistaken. Zoran had been a good buy that day and simply proved the importance of having a good and solid business relationship with your slave-dealer.

End of chapter 21

To be continued...