Dahran

This is the sixth chapter ex twenty two of a novel

• The Dahran Rebuttals - about present day slavery and gay sex.

The Dahran trilogies are composed to date of 6 novels:

Trilogy one:

The Changed Life

The Reluctant Retrainer

The Market Offer

Trilogy two:

The Special Memories

The Dahran Way

The Dahran Rebuttals (this novel)

Keywords:

authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, 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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Chapter 6 -- The assumption of hardship

It was the first day of the bank week and Gustav Ahlson popped his head inside my office door--he was still upset over the attempted kidnapping of baby Jason the previous evening--and mentioned that the following morning Farouq al-Hamdi, owner of the Sheikdom's largest opal mine, was going to drop in to sign a leasing agreement. He was purchasing some new equipment and under a variety of tax headings, leasing agreements made sense at the moment in Dahra.

I had nothing to do with the paperwork itself which was all prepared under Gustav's careful supervision. I told Gustav to let me know when all had been signed and sealed and that I would stop by the business suites to say hello.

I had been buying those slaves at the end of their cycle in his open cast opal mine, some sixty or so miles inland near the Dahran hills. In the past year, I must have acquired at least twenty, all well trained and good workers, who delighted in the farm work, after the desert heats of the opal mine.

What had always shocked me about his slaves was that a slave in his late twenties could look forty and one in his forties look like an old man, such was the drain on the human physiognomy of the individual having had to work twelve hours a day non-stop, for up to seven years without a single day's break.

Farouq al-Hamdi was his usual self. It was really only my fourth time seeing him and he was the epitome of the successful Dahran businessman. I was never quite sure how many pies he had baking at any one time, or even in how many countries. But he was always making money.

I looked at the fire opal on my signet ring and was glad I had worn his gift that day.

`Sir Jonathan, what a pleasure to see you.' Farouq was up and out of his seat the moment I entered.

`Equally so, Farouq. Business must be good to need twenty million of new equipment.'

`Sir Jonathan, business has never been better and thank you for your Bank's assistance in this agreement.'

`Gustav's work, I can assure you, Farouq.'

`You must come out to see the improvements at the mine. My general Manager has been implementing a number of new initiatives.'

Even just the memory of the opal mine sent perspiration down my back. It had been hotter there than any other place in Dahra that I could remember. And dry. Bone dry.

I was about to cry off going anywhere near that mine again, but for some reason Farouq's presence stopped the thought in its tracks.

`Yes, I must, Farouq. How is Zabian al-Kibbe? I met his son not too long ago.'

`Zabian is very well and the backbone of my operation there. I have to see him at the mine next Tuesday for lunch and to go over some mining matters. Can I prevail on you to fly down with me and we can all have lunch?'

Again, I was tempted to cry off, but something had me say, `Delighted, Farouq, if you promise to get me back by nightfall.'

`Done deal, as we say, Sir Jonathan. I shall have my driver collect you, say at eleven on Tuesday. I have just bought myself a new Bell helicopter and it will be an excellent trial run with a guest aboard.'

It would prove to be a week of strange and rum affairs.

When I returned to the Lime Palace that afternoon, I needed to talk to this Madar Sicsou to find out what the idea was anyway. What had he been thinking of and why? But more importantly, it was my responsibility to plan to prevent such incidents in the future. To do this adequately, I needed to learn about the reasoning, if any, behind the madness of this act.

This whole attempted escape episode could not be reduced to a mere irritating intermezzo in the week's activities without consequences. It had been a crisis which had crept up and had surprised us in a frightening manner.

I felt that it was essential to become acquainted with this slave's point of view as crucial for my own personal learning curve and for my development as a Master.

I had just found out for the first time that a slave could be dangerous and now I needed to know the reason why. The slave's actions had been clear proof that all the training I had devised and all the care I had provided were no safeguard against that danger.

It was no longer a case that I could accept slaves, train them, have them work for me and do with them whatever I wanted -- at least not all the while assuming that they all thought about it as I wanted them to think. I could no longer luxuriate in the thought that they ought to appreciate what I did for them or even that they ought to be grateful for their benevolent enslavement at my Palaces.

Neither was it the case that they were all so very grateful, there was no danger from any of them. I had just let them run around all my three Palaces with minimal casual supervision, because I knew, or I had thought that I knew that I could trust them.

Because so many of the slaves were so rational, insightful and susceptible to threats, I had let them sleep with wide open doors and had done nothing about internal security.

Madar Sicsou was brought to me by Greg Logan and Jess Tollman. His arms were restrained by Velcro straps to a waist-belt.

I looked at him. He looked defiantly at me. A pinched weasel of a narrow face, with eyes too close to the bridge of his nose and a thin mouth.

There was no show of humble slave behaviour. Sicsou stood there radiating hostility, until Greg gave him a well-aimed kick at the back of the knee and they pushed him down.*

As an Algerian, he spoke accented Arabic and interspersed it with French, so there was no language problem which as the least of my problems with Madar Sicsou.

`I do not give a damn about you, Jonathan Martin,' was the first of his statements to me and I had not even opened my mouth.

Jess Tollman was about to step forward. There was fury in his eyes adding insult of talking to a Master first, without waiting or being asked to speak.

`Are you too stupid to realise that I want to be free? I did not ask to come to this fucking shit-hole in the desert?'

I looked at the slave mouthing his outburst.

`But where were you going? Back to something? Back to some place? Some one?' I asked.

I knew he had no one, no place, nothing to go to.

`None of your fucking business where I was or was not going! I wanted to start a new life far from here, far from you.'

The anger was red hot.

`You don't even know where here is or who I really am, do you?'

`Je m'en fous.'

Less he could not care and with language to match.

`I have survived worse than here since I was a kid and I know what is best for me, not a bunch of overseers telling me the time of day at every minute.'

`But why did you want to harm a child?'

`The child was just in the corridor being walked around by a slave. I was searching for clothes and anything else I could use. I had heard there was a family with a child in the lime green Palace and even saw a car there when they gave us a guided tour of the place and the farm. Someone even left the keys of the car over the visor. Can you imagine such stupidity?'

This earned him another glowering look from Jess.

`You saw the video about the bracelet. Every bracelet is tracked by a satellite signal,' I protested.

You can never believe anything the flics tell you,' was the sarcastic reply, anyway I thought that I could sell the sale gosse for some cash or something at the port and get somehow on a ship.'

Whether it was the sheer stupidity of someone who wanted to sell my grand-nephew, who had not listened to anything he had been told, or the anger I felt at Jack and Fiona's child, my great-nephew, being referred to as a brat who was to be sold to pay for a ticket out of Dahra, I knew my interview with Madar Sicsou was over.

I got up to leave him on his knees.

`My plan failed. So what? At least, I tried like a man. And it was worth it! I gave you all a good scare, after all the abuse I have been subjected to. At least, I have had some revenge! At least, I showed you that I still have some backbone, after all the bowing and scraping you have forced me to do!'

That said, Madar Sicsou spat at me. His gob of spit hit my shirt and with that, he sealed his fate.

Greg Logan was holding Jess Tollman's arms. I left them with the slave and as I passed Jess, I put my arm on his shoulder and patted him twice.

`Jess, he is not worth your anger. Chain him up for the night.'

Although I had asked the overseers to be available to have dinner with me, after my interview Madar Sicsou, I never felt like eating, but I knew that it was necessary to reassure them all. The kidnapping had hurt deeply not just in the physical abducting of a child. It had hurt in the rejection of all the training they had given.

Ben Trant saw my dejection when I had arrived back from the Bank and now he had Gianni Centini to hand.

`Master, come up and let us get you ready for dinner. Let us run you a bath after the day.'

I was not in a mind to argue and let myself be led upstairs. I looked at the spit on my shirt and for once, I felt really, really dirty. I stepped out of my clothes, kicked off my shoes. When the whole lot was in a pile on the bedroom floor, I said to Gianni, `see that it is all burned. Not washed. Burned.'

`Yes, Master' and I caught his look at Ben.

`Come, Master, let us get you in your bath and ready for dinner.'

Dinner was like an overcast day. My Managers and overseers sat round the long table in the dining-room. For some, it should have been an occasion of happiness and joy, their first time dining with me en masse.

Yves Fournier came in late and gave the best news of the evening, Vedel had awakened briefly and much to Yves' relief he was lucid, but had a headache. Yves had sent that news down to Beno at the Aloe Palace with Randy, his assistant. Beno had almost been out of his mind with worry and grief but he would not leave baby Jason alone for a second, as if he had somehow been also to blame for not having protected the baby better.

To try and lighten the mood, I had Yves choose a couple of bottles of good Merlot. The overseers don't normally drink alcohol but on this occasion I had a glass served to them all, which they sipped and sipped for the full duration of the meal.

Flavio had prepared one of his excellent light evening meals--a perfect English roast stuffed with figs, vegetables from the farms and small marble-sized potatoes au beurre et persil.

While Cal Thorson was telling a dirty but funny joke in Arabic about a camel and donkey, I slipped into the kitchens to find the chef. Flavio was facing the window with his hands on his hips, but sensed my presence behind him, as the kitchen had gone quiet.

`Boss, everything okay?'

`Perfect, Flavio, perfect as usual.'

I gave him a hug and I felt his arms around me. I held on.

`Flavio, why can't things stay simple?'

Sensing my mood, Flavio kept his strong arms around me.

`Life moves on, Boss. Life moves on.'

I saw a movement to my side and it was Marko. I held out an arm and took him into a threefold embrace. I felt the heat of his cheek as he rested his face on my shirt.

`A beautiful dessert, again, tonight, Marko.'

His dark eyes looked at me and there was a light of love and trust in them that reassured me that sometimes, some things did work out well.

There were four other slaves in the kitchen who had been helping Flavio. He beckoned them forward and I realised that they were all recent vintage slaves from the EU. In the kitchens, obeisance is not made as it can be too dangerous for all concerned, so each came forward and kissed my hand. One had done the figs. Another had done the roast itself; another the potatoes and the last the vegetables. To each, I tried to say a positive word and I saw that there was gratitude in their smiles.

Madar Sicsou came into my mind again. If there had only been a moment of such humility in his attitude to save him from himself.

The following morning, Monday, I awoke early. I had given instructions that all my slaves of all the three Aloe, Lime and Lemon Palaces were to be assembled before breakfast in the first compound of the Lemon Palace.

The majority of my slaves had never even visited the Lemon Palace grounds, let alone the compounds and there were some muted voices to be heard as they assembled. It is quite a sight to see the serried ranks of over seven hundred slaves at `rest.'

The first compound had been cleared of all training equipment and the only item which was new and out of place was a large block of black coloured wood about four feet long and under three feet high placed on the sand some twenty or so feet from the side wall of the compound.

The early morning sun was just over the horizon and while the day was already warm, there was a chill in the compound which was not entirely atmospheric. That chill deepened when a large man walked into the compound naked save for a leather apron and shorts, wearing a black helmet-like covering over his head. He needed no introduction as the State Executioner for the Sheikdom of Dahra.

If any slave was in doubt as to his identity, the four-foot long Royal Scimitar in his right hand glinting coldly in morning air would have dispelled that doubt. All would remember its presence in the training video.

The Managers of the Palaces were standing to my left, as were on my right Jack and Fiona, ready to witness the execution of the slave who had gravely injured a slave who was dear to them and endangered the life of their child. Now both were standing in the early morning light emanating an air of silent menace as I had never before perceived and never thought possible in my easygoing nephew and his wife.

I stepped forward and faced the assembled slaves.

`Two evenings ago, Madar Sicsou attempted to escape. He stole a car from the Aloe Palace, injured another slave and kidnapped the son of my nephew. He was caught in the act. His guilt speaks for itself. He will now be punished for his crimes and all of you are reminded what the ultimate punishment is. Let the criminal be brought out.'

From one of the compound buildings, Greg Logan and Jess Tollman, my retrainers, escorted out Madar Sicsou who was being supported between them.

On my instructions, he had been sedated with a double dose of Valium, but even still he realised what was going on and that something was about to happen to him. His arms had been cuffed to a waist-belt and Greg carried a belt which would tie his ankles together. His feet half-dragged across the sands of the compound.

As they had been prior instructed by the executioner, Greg and Jess forced the slave to his knees and Greg immediately slipped the belt around the slave's ankles.

Jess pushed the slave's head forward over the block of wood. He and Greg stepped quickly back and to the side three paces.

The executioner had been standing to the right-hand side of the wooden block and in one single fluid motion almost too fast for the eye to see, the Scimitar flashed and a second later the sound of a blade hitting wood was heard in the compound as it severed a head from a torso.

Madar Sicsou's head bounced twice on the soft golden sand, a surge of arterial blood came from his severed neck and drained immediately into the sandy ground. His torso stayed immobile for two seconds at the wooden block and then slipped down to the ground.

The executioner had already left the scene of the execution. First Komil, then Yuriy and then Dumi instructed their respective slaves back to the Palaces for breakfast. I noticed out of the corner of my eye, the Police Captain coming in with the technician to retrieve the GPS bracelet and I confirmed with him the day that his men would come to enjoy the pleasures of the Lime Palace and perhaps have an evening meal with me.

The comment was made to me afterwards that evening that not a single slave had lost his appetite for breakfast that Monday morning.

The following day, the helicopter flew four hundred feet over the desert, golden sands shimmering from dune to dune, changing every so often to deep gold and then back to light tan, depending on the terrain.

Unlike the earlier version of the helicopter, this luxury model, capable of seating at least eight people, a pilot and a steward, was as silent inside as a car. Farouq was on fruit juice. I was sipping a glass of perfectly chilled Chablis which had been served seamlessly by the steward. I had looked at his right ankle and noted the titanium GPS bracelet.

Farouq was talking gems. Opals in particular.

`There is never a drop in the market for opals. It is constant. Diamonds go up and down; gold goes up and gold goes down. Opals are always in demand and talking of opals, may I compliment you again on the setting of your fire opal.'

The opal had been Farouq's gift to me after the last visit to his mine.

`It took me a long time to decide, Farouq, on the cut itself and then just as long on the signet ring setting. You can see the seal itself and my symbol, the house-martin, in the gold on either side of the gem.'

`A good emblem, Sir Jonathan!'

`Yes, indeed, Farouq. A home bird, who loves the sun and the heat!' and he smiled at my explanation.

The steward came to top up my Chablis.

`Your staff are very well trained, Farouq. Perfect wine. Perfect service. Perfect setting in the air over the sands of Dahra.'

The slave's eye caught my eye and I smiled at him as he served the Chablis.

`A word of praise from the Retrainer is worth ten from any dealer,' Farouq replied.

The slave's eyes had gone cold for an instant around the edges. I continued to smile at him, but his eyes were in neutral.

I could not help by ask the slave `You have heard of the Retrainer?'

His Arabic was accented, but clear. He looked Slavic or south Russian.

`Yes, Master. Every slave has heard of the Retrainer.'

`And what have you heard?'

`The Retrainer can train a slave by merely looking him in the eyes and that he has eighty seven punishments to train a slave.'

I looked at the slave, whose eyes had dropped to the floor of the helicopter. I put my hand out and stroked the back of his neck, the tension in his skin seem to lessen after a minute.

I looked at Farouq and could not resist saying, `How on earth, Farouq, can slaves have such accurate information on my training procedures?'

`Eighty seven punishments, Sir Jonathan?'

`Training procedures, actually, though to the unbroken slave, they may appear to be a punishment.'

The slave before us on his knees was still looking at the floor. I leaned forward and raised his chin, `I would never be able to retrain you. Do you know why?'

`No, Master.'

`Very simply, you are already perfectly trained and serve your Master and your Master's guests perfectly.'

`Thank you, Master.'

`No, thank you, for serving your Master so well and knowing how to serve such perfect wine.'

`Thanking a slave, Sir Jonathan? Eh? Now, I've heard everything. I heard you did that. This slave is thanked when I don't beat him myself or have him flogged.'

I thought I felt the slave shiver or it may have been the movement of the helicopter.

`Well, Farouq, the next time he displeases you, just send him to me and I shall buy him from you.'

I ran my hand down the slave's back and could feel the residual effects of a long-ago beating. The human hand can feel these tissues which the eye itself cannot distinguish.

`And a typical slave like him, Sir Jonathan, how long to retrain him?'

`He is not typical, anything but. He is well trained. He loves you. He fears you. So too, would he love and fear a new Master, if he were mine, after let us say half-an-hour.'

`Do you hear that slave? Half-an-hour with the Retrainer and that would be it for you.'

The slave was now definitely trembling, not precisely knowing where the conversation was going and for slaves, the unknown is the greatest fear.

I again raised the slave's chin.

`Do not worry. You are the prefect slave at present and you please your Master.'

`Yes, Master,' he replied none too sure.

The helicopter came in low over the sands and we were down before I could even think of what a passenger should do by way of landing procedures which apart from having the seat-belt on, appeared to be none other than finishing off the Chablis and handing back the empty glass.

The heat of the central Dahran desert was worse than I remembered. It was just before one o'clock and all the heat of the day was still in the air. The distant horizons shimmered. The sands of the nearby desert shimmered. The air shimmered. The buildings shimmered. Good heavens, what a world!

The thought came into my mind that few pieces of metal could be touched in this type of heat.

Some hundreds of yards away, the open cast mine beckoned with its sole eye immutably fixed skywards, like a Cyclops in the sand and from it and into it, figures of slaves moved pushing and pulling carts of clay and sand. It was hell without the fire, but with all the heat.

We did not delay long in the sun, but walked calmly but quickly into the air-conditioned offices.

Zabian al-Kibbe and his staff were at the door. I noted that they had not come out to the helicopter to be either smothered in the dust of its landing, or in the heat of the day while awaiting its arrival.

Greetings and pleasantries exchanged, Zabian brought us upstairs to a dining-room overlooking the mine and its operations with a ceiling-to-floor pane of darkened glass. Even though the glass was dusky in colour, the natural light in the dining-room was so bright that several of the staff still had sunglasses on.

Lunch was waiting for us, or rather the first course was. Farouq and I, Zabian and an employee who turned out to be the accountant sat down at a large circular table and three waiters immediately sprang into action to tuck in the chairs behind us and in a seamless movement, to unfold a napkin and place it on our laps.

I looked at the right ankle of the waiter and noted the slave bracelet. I made a point of quietly saying `thank you' to him and gave him a friendly wink.

The lunch was really a moment to relax for Farouq before doing the business, for which he had come to the mine, this being to go over some financial matters with his accountant and while he was polite in his conversation with me at the table, it was Zabian, who kept me in conversation most of the time.

I mentioned that I had met his son, the lawyer, but did not explain the circumstances and merely said that the firm in which he was a junior Partner looked after all my legal affairs in Dahra.

`I am so proud of Karim. He wanted to do his own thing and that was law. There was no stopping him. He takes after his mother!'

I could not help but laugh at the self-deprecating man, who was nobody's fool.

`I would like to show you a couple of things after lunch, Sir Jonathan. Farouq will need at least an hour with the accountant. We are getting in new equipment I have ordered. Your bank's Mr. Ahlson has been doing the leasing agreement on it.'

`Yes, I know. Good financial thinking.'

Sir Jonathan, I could not but help overhear.' Farouq said, You won't mind if I leave you with Zabian for a while after lunch.'

I replied in the negative. The lunch was almost over. It had been light due to the heat which even with the air-conditioning, could be felt in the dining-room. When it did break up, Farouq promised we would have tea before we left and Zabian and I walked down to the ground floor.

`I have introduced a number of changes based on what I have heard of the work at your Palaces, Sir Jonathan. Farouq has this belief that old work procedures are best for slaves, but I have been getting him to authorise changes.'

I looked at him. Who had been talking to whom I wondered?

Zabian saw my look.

`Dahra, Sir Jonathan, is not a big country so when something new happens, we all get to know about it sooner, rather than sooner' and he laughed at his own quip.

`Farouq has always believed that making a slave's life hard will produce results here at the opal mine. I am showing him in my way that equal and better results can be produced without excessive hardship and with incentives which I have based on some things I have heard about you and your farms.'

We were at the entrance of the office and of the walk over to the open cast mine. I had dressed as lightly as I could with an open-necked shirt and the lightest of cotton pants. Zabian looked even cooler in a white gallabiya down to his ankles and a chequered headscarf.

As we approached the glass doors, two slaves materialised with large white and yellow umbrellas and we strolled calmly out.

`Do you notice anything about these two slaves?'

I looked at two well-tanned slaves. They could have been Slav; they could have been Russian. They looked well with a close hairstyle. Their tackle looked okay. I could not see anything strange. In fact, I should have been looking not for what they had, but rather for what they had not, because Zabian filled me in, `crew cut hairstyles and no metal or other ornamentation.'

`All the slaves now have the same haircut and get it trimmed every ten days. They look forward to sitting on the barber's stool and being given a simple haircut for five minutes as the centre of someone's attention and you will notice no nipple rings or cinches or penis rings, just like your slaves.'

`How do you know that, Zabian?'

`The comments of the truck drivers, who collect your vegetables each morning. They have commented on it in the markets. It's the JM look.'

Suffering Jupiter! I had heard that before and it annoyed me to hear myself being spoken of as if a fashion guru.

Zabian continued, `the second change you won't see. But the working day is now only eleven hours here at the mine with a break under canvas from eleven thirty to twelve thirty, again an idea I believe you work at your Palaces.'

`Yes, Zabian, but in our case, it is four hours and the slaves take language classes and classes in sex techniques.'

`I heard that, Sir Jonathan, but did not quite believe it, but I did introduce another thing of yours.'

`What?'

A ten minute shower every day in the evening when the work is finished and every slave must jack off the slave on his right. We use a fair bit of water for that, but it is recycled almost immediately. The slaves make a joke about it saying don't drink the water or you'll become pregnant' as they say there is so much semen in it,' and he laughed at his own comment.

`And all of this is productive?'

`Yes, most definitely. After I put in the break at midday, production went up 6% and after the shower every day in the evening, it went up another 4%. Also, in the past year we have had four less deaths than we normally would have.'

`And what else are you doing?'

`Those three changes have taken me all of a year, to say nothing of selling off the older slaves to you. The boss does not like too much change on a good production unit, such as the opal mine. I am convincing the boss little by little that some less hardship will also produce even better results.'

We had reached the viewing platform which overlooked the open cast. If the heat beating down from the sun was bad, the heat rising up from the sands below was like the blast out of a furnace.

`Another procedure which I have introduced has increased the availability of water at all times down on the floor.'

Pointing down to some slaves on the floor of the pit, who seemed to be on their own, he said `water slaves.'

They were the equivalent of my `water-guys.' I looked down at the bottom of the pit and had no wish to be on its floor.

`I thought that you said the workers were under canvas for an hour, but I saw some pushing carts as we came in.'

`Punishment duties.'

Zabian did not elaborate and I did not enquire.

`Are you happy with the sale of your end-of-career slaves, Zabian?'

Zabian switched to French and I looked at him. I realised that he did not wish the two umbrella bearing slaves to understand the conversation he was about to make.

`Yes, we now say to the slaves that at the end of seven years they will be sold to do light farm work. I hope you don't mind your farms being referred to as light farm work. The slaves, of course, don't know where they will be going. It is my little secret and that of the accountant. If I said they were being sold to the Retrainer, I would have a riot on my hands.'

Switching back to Arabic, Zabian said, One other little change I have introduced is that none of the overseers on the floor now carry a whip or a cane, but rather a pencil and a pad. Every time a slave is seen slacking he is told one point'. When a slave gets a cumulative five points, that evening before the showers when all are assembled, the slave gets ten strokes of a camel-cane. There are usually eight to ten slaves, who are punished per day. That saves us a lot of time and perspiration on the floor and was something that the overseers themselves came up with.'

`Congratulations, Zabian, you have a well-run operation here. A really well-run operation.'

We stood there on the viewing platform for some time and Zabian pointed out the geological features of the area and what they meant. I enquired about two specific Michigan slaves and Zabian dialled each name in turn into a gadget in his hand which beeped continuously when pointed in the direction of a number of slaves on the right on the floor below. The second slave's beep was from the same general direction. They were too far away to be individually recognised.

`Sir Jonathan, let us go back and have some tea. When the boss sees us arrive, he will start to finish with the accountant, otherwise they will go on and on for another hour. And by the by, congratulations on the setting of your firestone opal. I couldn't help but notice it. It looks superb.'

We strolled back to the offices. My shirt was stuck to my back. I felt that my boxer shorts had been in a washing machine and just hoped that the perspiration was not visible on the light cotton trousers.

This was a problem that had clearly arisen before, because upon arrival back at the offices, Zabian showed me into a guest suite, with a large bathroom and shower attached. Why was I not surprised to find a shirt, shorts and trousers in my size hanging up for me? I wondered just what was secret in Dahra if a gentleman's size in boxer shorts was not.

The slave, who had been carrying my umbrella had followed us up to the offices and came into the bathroom suite to undress and attend to me.

When he had washed my back under the cold shower--the cold water being mildly warm--I turned round to wash off the soap on my front. The slave went on his knees in the shower and said, `does the Master wish me to relieve him by using my mouth or hand.'

The Master, slightly surprised, did not.

`The Master has not pissed. Would the Master like to piss in my mouth.'

The Master, rather surprised, again did not.

I dressed, or rather was dressed. I handed my towel to the slave and told him to dry himself. He appeared shocked at the courtesy.

`What is you name?'

`Pavel, Master.'

Another Pavel `-- and where are you from originally?'

`Kiev, Master.'

Another Ukrainian, perhaps part of that entire battalion which disappeared.

`Pavel, you are a good slave and you and I shall meet again.'

`Master?'

He had not understood and could not understand the time-geist that in some future year would place him in my hands. I kissed him on the lips and gave his cheek a pat.

`Thank you, Pavel.'

`No, Master. Thank you, I am your servant.'

`Business done, Farouq?'

Yes, quite. All wrapped up. Now back to the capital city, or would you like me to drop you directly at the Lime Palace. This new helicopter can land on a dime' as the makers say.'

`No, Farouq, back to the airport, please. The car will be there and congratulations not only on your new helicopter but on the mine, now producing an extra ten or so percent according to Zabian.'

`A couple of changes which he introduced over the last year. I had my doubts, but they worked. They are good ideas of his.'

I looked at Zabian and it dawned on me that Farouq did not know the source of Zabian's ideas and I did not enlighten him. There was no need to steal his General Manager's thunder. So Zabian and I smiled a smile of mutual understanding at each other.

Back at the Lime Palace, I looked at the bolts of Mohair which I still had in stock. I have found that my tailor's supplies of the new Mohair are one of the best and easiest of presents to give to friends. The recipient can then have a suit made to his own liking.

I chose two bolts, one in a light coffee and the other in a more usual and conservative pinstripe and had Faisal, my driver, deliver them to Farouq al-Hamdi's office, with a note saying that `the light coffee colour would be eminently suitable for a businessman who flies by helicopter'.

I had no sooner dictated the note for Farouq, but there was a knock on the study door. Komil, the stables Manager, Rob and Niko, the two joint Managers of the Lemon Palace training compounds were standing there, together with Mirzan and Vaz, the two most senior overseers.

I beckoned them to come in. They all looked as if they had lost something, or as if the worries of the world were on their shoulders. Once inside the study, the five went on their knees and Rob spoke for the five of them.

`Master, we want to resign as your Managers and overseers.'

Rob was to the point if anything.

`Why?'

There was no point in small talk from me.

`The escape of Madar Sicsou, Master.'

`The attempted escape. Why do you wish to resign because of that?'

`Because, Master, we did not train him well for you.'

`Do you know why I chose you as Managers and overseers? It was because you have learned so many things here at the Palace. But not only have you learned things, you are loyal to me. Madar Sicsou is nothing. He could have been something, somebody in time here at the Palaces as a slave, or as an overseer.'

`But, Master, we did not see that he was not fully trained,' Rob said.

`Rob, Niko, Komil, Mirzan, Vaz, get up off your knees. It was Sicsou's decision to try and escape. No slave is fully trained for at least two years, a wise man once told me. Sicsou was here what, a month, a month and a half. So he slipped through our procedures. It happened and it will happen again.'

`You're not angry with us, Master?' Vaz said.

`Angry with you? Not at all. Angry at Sicsou for wasting his life, yes, when he could have been productive here. Do you know his execution cost nothing? It is part of the public service here in Dahra like collecting the garbage in the capital city.'

`What do you want us to do, Master?' Mirzan asked.

`What you are very good at--training slaves and bringing them safely into the life of the Lemon Palace. We had a bad fig and we got rid of it as the proverb says. Let us all learn the lesson. No questions, Niko, you're very silent.'

`No questions, Boss, just sorry for the baby, for Master Jack and the Mistress and for you.'

`Right! Managers and overseers, resignations rejected. What's your next item on the agenda?'

There was none, apart from some sheepish smiles and they headed for the door.

`Komil, stay a minute.'

The big Uzbeki stood at the door until the others had left and then came across and knelt down in front of me. For over a year, as my lover, he had been at my bedside or in my bed. His open and trusting eyes looked into mine. As the windows of his soul, they showed no guile, no deception, nothing but a patient waiting of my next command.

I reached out and put my arms around his neck and pulled him close. More than my lover, he was my confidant in all that mattered in the Lemon Palace. I felt his large arms encircling me and his breath on my shoulder.

`Komil, we can't have this happen again. The slaves at the Aloe Palace I would trust with my life. You saw how the slaves at the Lime Palace reacted to those raiders, even those first slaves who came from the jails of Europe. They have a life here and they know that.'

`Yes, Master, I know that and they know that.'

`But, Komil, these new slaves at the Lemon Palace, I do not trust them. Rather, I don't trust them yet. From tonight onwards they have to be locked in until roll-call each morning.'

`I agree, Master. I was going to suggest a number of things to you. But I wanted them clear in my own mind first.'

`What, for example?'

`Master, the Lemon Palace slaves must stay on the Lemon Palace grounds. No more wandering around in the evenings. Only when all the overseers agree on a specific slave should he have access to the grounds of the other Palaces. No more necklaces at thirty days until we are totally confident of the slave, Master. The necklace means that you trust the slave entirely and are rewarding him with a symbol of your love. That love must be shown to you first.'

Komil was breathing deeply and paused. He obviously felt deeply about this, as indeed I did.

`Master, let the Lemon Palace slaves build their own sports facilities. Don't give it to them on a plate.'

`Is that what seems best to you, Komil.'

`At times, yes, Master. At times, yes. The slaves and I include myself in this, are here to please you, not the other way round.'

`And what else?'

`The performance of the Lemon Palace slaves has to be reviewed monthly for a start. Can I have a word with Jens, Master and see if he can come up with a reminder schedule or programme or something?'

I nodded agreement.

`Komil, I know all the slaves here are for my pleasure, but I do want them not only obedient to me, I want them healthy and well-exercised. If we are now locking the Lemon Palace slaves in for the night, transfer the twenty seven al-Shaad slaves up to the Lime Palace and give them to Dumi for his farm work. There is no need to have them confined, is there?'

`No, Master. And talking about them, may I keep the two Turks as assistant overseers?'

`Are they not still under the threat of losing a ball each?'

Komil smiled, `No, Master. Not really. They have been working very well as ordinary slaves. Really hard if I may say so myself and I have taken them a number of times to my bed. They have nothing but your wishes to heart. The reason I ask is that they are firm with the other slaves and are accustomed to command. I need that in the new farming overseers and I do not have enough of them at the Lemon Palace.'

`Okay, Komil. I agree. I will talk to you again about the control of the slaves. Those at the Lemon Palace have to know that the Master is the supreme law in their lives. Just let me know what else you want to put in place.'

`Yes, Master,' and Komil kissed my hand as he was getting up.

`Oh, by the way, have a word tomorrow with Tommy Saunders. It's that time of year again. There is a new tape in for you from Uzbekistan.'

Komil stopped in his tracks.

`I think there will be some things that you will like.'

`Yes, Master, thank you.'

Though it was getting late that night, I walked across to the small hospital ward which Yves Fournier maintained beside his surgery. Randy Tait was sitting at a desk looking at a medical book and jumped up when I walked in.

`Master,' he said and went to make an obeisance.

I stopped him. It was late in the evening.

`How is Vedel?'

`Coming along nicely, Boss. Thank heavens, he has a hard head. We think he lost about three pints of blood, but Andy McTee certainly saved his life by getting the flow stopped.'

I was looking over at the book on the table.

`A medical text, Boss. Dr. Fournier lets me read them.'

`Yes, indeed, Randy. Why are you here so late?'

`Just a few minutes more and then I am relieved at ten.'

He mentioned a slave's name and it did not mean anything to me for a second. He would have been one of the original gift slaves from my neighbours.

As if reading my mind, Randy said `I'm then back on at six, Boss.'

`And who organises all of this, Randy?'

`I do, Boss,' he replied quietly.

I put my arm over his shoulder and gave him a hug.

`You know, I appreciate all you do, Randy and you please me no end. Not just everything you do for Dr. Fournier.'

`Thanks, Boss, it's nice to hear you say it.'

`Now, let's see Vedel.'

`This way, Boss. I think he may be sleeping.'

I was surprised to see four beds full in ward. Vedel's was nearest the door and one of Fiona's Scottish slaves got up off the floor where he had been sitting. Apparently, as Beno would not leave baby Jason unattended, Fiona was sending up a slave every four hours. Vedel indeed was sleeping, his head swathed in bandages.

`Is he sleeping a lot?' I said to the slave.

`Och, aye, Master. He woke up an hour ago and took a wee drink of water and then back to shut-eye. The doc says he'll be fine,' the slave said very quietly.

The other slaves in the other three beds were wide awake and with Randy at my side, I asked him what the matter with each was. One had been operated two days previously for a groin hernia, one for two sebaceous head cysts and the last for an ingrown toenail.

`They'll all be back to work, Master, in two days. The slave with the head cysts tomorrow,' Randy said as if their presence in the sickbay was a sign of some form of malingering.

I went over to each. None of whom I really recognised and allowed each to kiss my hand.

The good thing about Vedel was that two days later he was discharged with a bandage around his head which he sported for all of a week to heroic acclaim by all who met him.

The day following my visit to the sickbay, I met with both Jack and Fiona to reassure them that what had happened would not happen again and outlined some of the protective procedures Komil and the overseers were going to put in place.

Fiona was the more vocal of the two.

`Jonathan, that is all well and good enough, but while I trust our slaves, these others I can no longer trust. It makes me very nervous for the safety of the baby. Jack and I have been talking and we are going to look for another home here in Dahra.'

Jack looked at me, `I wish it could be under different circumstances, Uncle Jonathan. But I have to think about Fiona and the baby.'

And we have to think about our slaves,' Fiona added. We are responsible for their protection. Your slave almost killed Vedel, you know that very well.'

`You both have my fullest support,' was all I could say. In my heart of hearts, I knew that I could not give them immutable guarantees written in stone as to their safety. It was time to come into the real world of hard choices.

Two days later Farouq sent back a letter to say thanks for the bolts of cloth. The letter was delivered by early morning Transit van, needed not to deliver the letter as such, but to deliver Pavel, the Ukrainian, who had a little gold ribbon tied around his cock.

Even Aziz al-Aziz, my Head of Household , smiled as the bewildered slave with his little ribbon, carrying the letter and a large sealed envelope containing his slave folder and a transfer of ownership deed, stepped out into the Lime Palace courtyard and was brought over to the veranda where I was breakfasting.

Who ever said that international businessmen like Farouq al-Hamdi do not have a sense of humour?

End of Chapter 6

To be continued . . .