This is the thirteenth chapter ex twenty two of a novel 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 13--The assumption of right
We all assume that we do the right thing. We more than assume it. We know it. We know it, until we are shown that our assumption is wrong.
However, doing the right thing all the time is as difficult as eating Chinese noodles, with a single chopstick or as easy as drinking water with a fork. It is, in two words, quite difficult to do the right thing all the time and if we think that we do so at all times, then we are utter fools.
It was only a matter of time before some slave tried to get word to the outside world about himself or the Palaces. The attempt, when it came, was simplistic to say the least. A single page of white paper in an envelope addressed to the British Consul. The handwriting was poor, but the message was clear.
`Sir,
Help me. I am a slave. I am British. I have been transported here I don't know how. I was a prisoner in jail in England. I am at a place called the Lemon Palace. The owner is Sir Jonathan Martin. Help me, please sir, help me, please.
A British citizen, Freddie Smith.'
The letter was given to one of the drivers delivering building materials for the Lemon Palace, who was told that the British Consul would give him a lot of money, £500 in fact, for receiving the letter.
The driver, who did not read English but knew about slaves trying to contact the outside world, drove out of the Lemon Palace grounds and down the road for the capital city in case the slave was watching him. He told me that he waited for a half an hour and then drove back to the Lime Palace and asked for me.
It was actually Ben Trant whom he met in the courtyard of the Lime Palace and who told him I would be back at five o'clock. Ben asked him what he needed to see Sir Jonathan for and was told that he had a letter for him, but would not part with the letter to Ben.
At five o'clock sharp, the driver was waiting for me in the courtyard. He told me the story and I had Ben Trant get $1,000 from the safe, more than what he had been promised by the slave.
`Please let the other drivers know that I am a more generous Master, than any Ambassador or Consul.'
`Yes, sir, thank you, sir.'
`Why did you bring the letter to me and not deliver to the Consul?
`I did not believe, Master, that I would get the money from Consul and I knew that you would appreciate the letter more. And I was right, Master.'
When the lorry driver had left, I looked at the letter and could not help but smile and shake my head. If this letter really had ended up on the Consul's desk, what would he have done with it? Sent it back to me with a terse comment whether this was how I kept my part of the deal?
My amusement vanished. If this slave had been successful in his venture, he would not have received any help whatsoever. But he would have caused me severe embarrassment. Who knows what the British diplomat, and possibly alerted EU colleagues, would have said about my inability to make sure that these prisoner-slaves as good as disappeared from the face of the earth? If there was one thing I was averse to, it was any outside interference into my home. This Freddie Smith would have opened up the possibility of the Consul starting inquiries into the security situation at my Palaces, something that had been thankfully avoided by the police treating Madar Sicsou's escape attempt as a matter of civil law, thus eluding all publicity.
This slave had to be dealt with, immediately and severely.
What the outcome of a successful communication might have been, had he not directed his letter to the Embassy, but to a foreign non-government institution -- that I preferred not to imagine in detail.
As far as I was concerned, I was prepared to keep my agreement with the governments who sent me these prisoners, and would not tolerate having my arrangements disturbed and my will crossed by one Freddie Smith, formerly prisoner in jail in England, and now my private property.
That evening I had Bob Conrad set my table on the unfinished steps of the Lemon Palace amid builder's debris and scaffolding. To be honest, I looked a bit odd. But I wanted the slaves there, who were either working on the farmland or on the building of the Palace itself, to remember the evening.
After the dinner which that evening for me was little more than some soup and a roll and a light vegetarian salad, I had Komil call out Freddie Smith.
Komil looked at me, not understanding my interest. The slave was just out of the compounds according to his folder and Komil would have known that.
Freddie Smith came forward from one side of the gathering of slaves who were all seated on the ground of the unfinished courtyard. He was thirty three according to the record and although a white sheet of paper covered his criminal file, I had looked at the file and saw that he had been a coach-driver, divorced, had got drunk, lost control of the coach he had been driving with undocumented aliens, killing sixteen of them, when it had overturned down an embankment.
When Freddie Smith approached, he knew something was wrong. I could see that. He knew that I knew that he knew. There was a deadly silence in the courtyard as the slaves and overseers realised something was amiss.
I was sitting there beside the dinner table with its white cloth and a used place setting.
When the slave got close, he dropped to his knees and kissed my feet and put my right foot onto the back of his head. I just let it rest there for a minute and then took it off.
`Stand up.'
The almost hairless slave stood up. I had neither given a display' or at rest' command, so he looked confused standing there with his hands at his sides, not attempting to join his hands, or cover his shrivelled genitals. I could see that his hair was brown and his eyes were a neutral grey and full of fear.
I put my hand in my inside pocket and pulled out the white envelope.
The slave sank to his knees, as if his legs suddenly would not support him and covered his head with his hands.
`I shall not order you to stand up again.'
The slave got to his feet shakily.
`Read this letter to everyone in the courtyard,' and I handed him the envelope.
He looked at the letter, as if it were a poisonous snake, but took it finally from my hands.
`Turn round. Read it aloud, so that all can hear.'
Freddie Smith read the confession of his own crime at the Lemon Palace, the attempted betrayal of his Master to the outside world. There was some whispering in the courtyard as those who did not understand English too well had it whispered to them in translation.
The slave turned back to me and again went on his knees and once more kissed my feet. He was crying profusely in his shame and at having been found out. As I was just standing up, he had no time to put my foot on the back of his neck. His head was now touching the ground and he was holding it between his hands.
`What punishment should this slave receive for this crime?,' I asked all those assembled in the courtyard. I noticed that Komil and the compound supervisors looked furious, angry and annoyed all in one.
Vaz, one of my training supervisors, clearly annoyed at what he had heard, spoke very much to the point.
`He should repeat the full compound training again, not once but twice, Master and this time I personally guarantee his loyalty to you at the end of the second month. I personally guarantee it.'
I turned to Komil and said to him in quick Arabic, `Take this slave away and make sure that he is secure. I don't want him even thinking of trying to escape after this. As Vaz has said, he will be put through each of the compounds twice and then he will be put on a water-wheel the Lime Palace.'
The slave was led off. The letter and the envelope were still on the ground. I pointed to them and said to Ben Trant, `Put those in his folder.'
When everyone's tempers had cooled down a week later, a much chastened Freddie Smith was brought before the assembled overseers and slaves.
`Where did you get the paper to write your message?'
`Master, I took a piece of paper from a clipboard in the compound.'
`And the pencil?'
`It was with the clipboard, Master.'
As assistant overseer had left the temptation and Freddie had succumbed to it.
`So, you would prefer jail in England, to work here at the Palace?'
`No, Master. I am sorry for what I did. It was madness and as soon as I had done it, I was sorry. I really do not want to go back to jail for life in England.'
Looking at Komil, I said "Instead of the water-wheel, when this slave has gone through the compound twice, put him on rock duty for three months, and if he pleases you with his work, you can then reassign him to other work.'
Rock duty involves collection the rocks that the farm work and digging throw up every day. It is hot and back-breaking work with a wheelbarrow, and would be a reminder to this slave for the rest of his life at how not to displease a Master.
End of Chapter 13
To be continued . . .