Dahran

The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor

This is the eighth chapter (ex twenty two) of a novel about present-day slavery and gay sex.

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 8 -- The pain of reunions

To keep my promise to Klaas, I resolved to have a quick massage each day before my afternoon swim. Also, it gave me an opportunity to think as I lay there being pummelled and prodded and rubbed down. Klaas is unlike a barber -- he rarely talks and lets his hands do the talking for him as he massages. Although he is an assistant Overseer because of his position and the fact that he has several assistant and junior slaves learning the art of massage, Klaas prefers to work nude--`so there is never anything at all between us, Master,' he had said to me one time with that quiet Dutch reserve of his.

As Klaas massaged my shoulders kneading them while standing in front of my head, I admired the smooth of the skin of his thighs, his thick but short circumcised cock, so very Dutch, gently bobbing before my eyes and just two inches from my fingers. If he was teasing me, I let him tease, closed my eyes and thought of the efficiency of the Palaces.

We had received a report at the Bank--having paid a small fortune to some consultants for half-a-dozen common sense ideas--on the need for increased delegation by all Partners and Managers, so as to ensure better training of all levels of juniors from Partners down to Trainee Executive Officers.

I intended to apply these thoughts and directives to my own management of the slaves in the three Palaces. It would free up the work of the Heads of Household and Overseers. It would be a way to ensure greater productivity on the farms and at the production facility producing the aloe sap and purgative, which were now giving net profit of just twenty million euro a year, most of which I was ploughing back into the development of the lands around the Palaces, to say nothing of their upkeep and the construction and furnishing of the new Lemon Palace.

As the massage tables are in the open beside the swimming pool of the Palace and as Klaas was working his way along my thighs and down to my feet, I spotted Roge Harte coming in for a swim and had him called over.

I thought to myself that I should apply one of the management delegation thoughts over which I had been musing.

`Roge, I got you a new assistant today to help with the running of your project.'

With my love of Australian Rules football, Roge looks after the development of a Tasmanian club I bought and which though it never makes a profit, brings me no end of pleasure. And that is from someone who has never even been to Australia, let alone to Tasmania!

`New assistant, Boss?'

`Yes, he'll be delivered tomorrow morning.'

`You're happy with the way I'm doing things, Boss?' Roge said half-doubtingly, as if to say--if okay, why an assistant, when it's less than a half day's work at any stage and the other part of the day is dedicated to keeping fit and training.

`I just thought you might be a bit overworked. You'll have to train this guy in hard. No slacking there, Roge.'

`No, Boss, no way.'

`And if I hear that he's been slacking on you, I want to hear in the next breath that you yourself have strung him up and flogged him with a camel cane. Or else, no more you know what,' and I made a beer drinking gesture.

When Roge reviews the weekly tape that comes in from the Hobart Gangers who have a usual weekend match, Roge is brought in two ice-cold Fosters. I think he would chew through the bones of his wrists rather than forego that weekly enjoyment and no new assistant was going to stand in the way of that enjoyment.

`No way, Boss! No way whatsoever! You can rely on me in whipping any assistant into shape and on the double.'

`Good, Roge, that is precisely what I wanted to hear; and just one thing. He has a virgin asshole. You're going to take his virginity as soon as he is trained. I want to hear how well you do it.'

`Me, Boss? I thought that a Master's privilege...you know, sort of like...'

`In your case?'

`Yes, Boss.'

`Well now there's a new management technique for you. You'll take his cherry and you can tell me all about it. Now let's swim.'

If the truth be told as it must, I have never bought a slave for his brain-power that I can remember. For his body, yes. For the beauty of his musculature, yes. Out of compassion for the slave's terror of his surroundings, yes. Out of curiosity or annoyance. For a specific language or secretarial ability. At times. But for IQ? Never. Roge was one such slave, beautiful, readable, uncomplicated and a hell of a good swimmer as he consistently beat me in the pool and grinned his victory at the end of a session. But he also looked a little wary at the thought of the new management technique he was to going to have to enforce.

The second slave I needed to talk to was Terry Peoples and I thought the easiest way would be to have him in my bed that night. So as I walked back to my study after the swim, with Roge Harte half-dripping wet at my side, dying to get some extra info on his new assistant. Trying to get Roge not to ask a question is like trying to stop the river Tigris flowing.

I finally had to say `Roge, I really don't know that much about him. I saw him for less than ten minutes. We didn't talk much. He doesn't mind being given blowjobs by blokes...'

`Boss, with all respect, you are joking. You bought a poofter?'

`No, Roge, I think it was something on the lines that if a girl wasn't around then a guy's mouth could do the job.'

`Boss, that's different. But how were you talking about blowjobs, if you were only talking to him for less than ten minutes?'

From any other slave, Roge's comments might be annoying, or even on the verge of being insulting, but he does talk first and I doubt that he ever thinks second.

`Roge, I really have to go. He'll be here in the morning. If you don't like him, I'll have him shipped back to the centre. Okay.'

It left Roge less than happy, but it stopped his questions temporarily.

`Ben, I want Terry Peoples as a bed companion in my room tonight.'

`Yes, Master.'

There are Yes, Masters' and there are Yes, Masters', and in Ben's reply there was something unspoken.

`Well? What are you not saying?'

`Master, I had Abdul down for tonight and he has been looking forward to being with you all week since I told him.'

`Well, then, have both of them there.'

`Yes, Master.'

This reply from Ben sounded much happier and relieved and I was glad for there was no way that I could or would make the now twenty-two year old mentally challenged Dahran slave unhappy.

When he had arrived and been given to me by his dying father--a sale which guaranteed his care for life--he was a magnificent specimen of young Arab manhood. Now with regular work, exercise and proper slave food, he had filled out, packed his body with muscle and fibre and walked like a young coffee coloured god among mortals.

It was not his natural appendage that amazes people most, the size of a regular arm, it was the most docile and doe-like of personalities which radiated from his being with every smile untainted and unblemished by the shallower sides of life.

Abdul ben-Azri was an innocent whose sexual prowess was only equalled by his simplicity of character, and he was loved by every single man and slave in the Palaces.

That night when I retired for the night, both slaves were `on display' when I went into the bedroom suite, the golden brown of the twenty-one year old American and the deep coffee colour tan of the twenty-two year old Dahran. Abdul topped Terry by two inches at least, in shoulder width by a palm-span and in the genital department by any superlative adjective that could be dreamed of.

While Terry was no slouch in his equipment, his talent lay in his knowledge of how to use it, honed by the experience of over ten years of sexual service with his previous Master and now in my Palaces with his lover, James Scott.

I think that Abdul is more the companion than the lover of Jens Johanssen, but whenever I mention Abdul's name to Jens his face lights up.

`Help me wash and shower.'

`Yes, Master,' the first said.

`Yes, Master,' the second slave echoed.

As Terry took my clothes off, he passed them to Abdul who placed them in the laundry basket as if he were handling religious vestments. It was the way he had been once and he did it to perfection, and would do so until ordered some day to do otherwise.

Terry ran into the bathroom and I heard the shower start.

`Terry will be with us tonight, Abdul, and he will love you as much as I love you.'

`That is impossible, Master, nobody can love me as much as you,' he answered with a smile of innocence.

`That is right, Abdul, but Terry will touch you in so many spots that you will think it is I who am loving your body.'

`Yes, Master.'

I could feel the heat of the day emanating from the closeness of his body.

`Come,' and I held out my hand and we walked together in to take a shower before retiring to the bed.

When both slaves had dried me down after the shower, I said,

`Abdul, come, kneel up on the bed and rest your body on your knees and hands.

Abdul knelt in the centre of the bed as told.

`Very good,' I murmured in approval.

`Now, Terry slip in under Abdul, so your head is under his balls.'

`Master, that's a sixty-nine position,' Terry said.

`Yes, I know what it is. Just lie there as you are. What do you think of Abdul's balls?'

`Master, they are as big as small oranges.'

`And his cock?'

`Master, it is so far down my belly, I can't see its tip and it is thicker than my wrist.'

`That's fine then, Terry. Wait until you are told to do something.'

`Now, Abdul, do you see Terry's balls?'

`Yes, Master.'

`What do they look like?'

`They are bigger than Jens', Master.'

`Then just lick them twice'

`Like I do to Jens?'

`Is this how you do it with Jens?'

`No, Master, I am between his legs when I lick him there to make him smile. But I can lick Terry like this.'

And with that Abdul's tongue came out of his mouth, ran down Terry's stiffening cock, laved both of the tightly exposed balls in their sack under his chin, did a little flick with his tongue and licked them back the way he had come.

I really should have warned Terry about Abdul's licking prowess, because he let out a squeal of pleasure as his hips rose from the bed and quite literally convulsed as Abdul's pink tongue did its magic. He collapsed back onto the bed.

`Terry, I think you felt that.'

`Master, whaah...what did he do?'

`He only licked you twice, once going, once coming. And you really must stop jumping around.'

See, Abdul,' I said to the slave on top, Terry really liked that.'

`I can't see, Master, if he is smiling.'

`He's smiling all right, Abdul.'

`Can I do it again, Master?'

`Not until I tell you.'

I positioned myself behind Abdul's widely splayed knees and let my hardness touch his light brown pucker. He wiggled and giggled as he does when he knows he is going to be pleasured by me and as I pushed forward, he was totally relaxed.

I soon found the pleasure spot I was seeking within him and almost immediately, the gentle rhythm which suited both of us.

`Now, Terry, start licking Abdul's balls as best you can....'

`Yes, Master.'

`...and with one finger just keep running it over his piss slit.'

`Yes, Master.'

It was not long before Abdul's back was arching down towards the bed and his head and shoulders angling toward the ceiling. When he is being pleasured, he has been told merely to whisper softly what he is feeling.

`Oh, Master, you are touching my sweet spot each time. My balls feel so full. Master, I don't want you to stop. Oh, Master....'

`How are you going down there, Terry.'

`Fine, Master, and Abdul's balls are tight up against his body, Master, and there is thick precum all over his cockhead from the piss slit.'

`Cover the cockhead with the precum and massage it all over very, very gently. When Abdul comes it is quite something, so you have been warned Terry.'

`Yes, Master.'

While Abdul is able to hold on for ages without cumming, there is a point which I have got to know which is close to his personal precipice. He was approaching that precipice fast.

`Abdul start licking Terry's balls as you did before.'

He did and Terry's free hand was soon gripping the sheet of the bed as his muffled groans came from between Abdul's thighs. He was raising his hips from the bed and Abdul was giving Terry's balls the laving of their life.

For all his experience, Terry shot first. It was not a question of him asking his Master's permission, Abdul's tongue simply pushed him over the precipice of control and that was that. His body started jerking and jerking and then collapsed on the bed under Abdul's still kneeling form which was still giving boundless pleasure.

Abdul's cumming was not far behind. I felt my invading cock being clutched in a vice and then he was giving little jerks as he does. His last clenching of his anus now drove me over my limit and I pumped my seed into his warm anal cavity. It was deep; it was wide; it was a furnace.

When I was finished I was drained, physically, emotionally and sexually.

`Up you get, Abdul,' I said. I had pulled out, glad that my private member was still glued to my own body.

We looked down at Terry Peoples lying on the flat of his back on the bed.

`Don't move a muscle, Terry, not a muscle. Abdul, get a towel from the bathroom.'

Terry Peoples' lower belly was simply white, his upper thighs white, his pubes white, his cock and balls white. He was covered in creamy white semen some of which was steaming little vapour trails in the bedroom air.

Abdul was back. I pointed to the scene on the bed.

`Master, he is not smiling,' Abdul said worriedly as he looked down at Terry.

Terry opened his half-closed eyes and smiled up at Abdul.

`You must have come down straight from my particular heaven, Abdul,' he said.

`Clean him up, Abdul and yourself as well and let's get some sleep. Terry, I may have a little surprise for you in the morning.'

Terry looked up at me from his strained angle, `A surprise, Master. After this, nothing can be a surprise.'

`Wait and see,' was all I could reply.

To tell the unadorned truth, I slept like a baby warmly sandwiched between Abdul who was behind and Terry who was to the front. We got up and did our ablutions in the morning, and I had the two slaves kneel beside my table and I fed them their slave biscuits for breakfast.

I was just finishing breakfast when the blue Transit van of the slave centre drew up. Aziz was there to take delivery of the two slaves who looked a little confused and dazed in the strong morning sunlight.

The slaves' cuffs were off, their delivery papers signed and the Transit van already departing on its route when the slaves were brought across to the steps of the veranda. They had now seen me coming down the steps and both made a full obeisance.

Roge Harte had appeared out of nowhere, as if by magic and Ben Trant had now come out of the study with some papers still in his hand.

I went up to the first and younger slave.

Luke, welcome to the Lime Palace your new home. I would like you to meet' -- and I stepped to one side to usher Terry forward -- Terry Peoples. Terry, I would like you to meet Luke Peoples.'

There are moments which we remember, when time stands still and hearing becomes a long single trill of a distant bird. That was one such moment. The two brothers looked at each other with a dawning of realisation.

`Luke? Luke, is it really you?'

`Terry? They said you were dead.'

The two brothers rushed together and were hugging and crying and saying each other's names, their naked state forgotten, the time and place and situation irrelevant. Two bodies, one gloriously tanned, one bronzed in parts, were intertwined in a fierce embrace of brotherly love. They hung together like human magnets joined at chest and hip and thighs for all of some minutes, as they hugged and kissed each others faces and necks.

Finally, I had to say `Terry, get Luke something to eat. He must be hungry and then get him to the medics.'

Turning to the other slave who was bewildered by what he had witnessed, I said, `Jake, welcome to your new home, the Lime Palace.'

Beckoning Roge Harte closer, `Roge, this is your new assistant. You're going to have to train him in a bit. Show him who is top dog and things like that. Teach him how to speak properly you know.'

`He doesn't speak any English, Boss?' Roge said loudly.

`Of course, I bloody speak English,' Jake said interrupting.

Roge stopped in mid-flow on hearing the Australian accent.

Boss, he's an Aussie,' he said with a big smile. You knew all along, You were jerking my chain.'

`What's your name, mate?' Roge said.

`Jake Carter, and what yours mate?'

Roge Harte,' Roge said with a grin and looking over at me and back the new assistant, and here there is no more mate'. When you talk you me, I'm either sir' or `Roge' to you.'

`Yes, sir. Yes, Roge.'

`Roge, take Jake and get him something to eat and cleaned up inside and out and over to the doctors and the dentist.'

`Yes, Boss.'

Pulling Roge close to me, I whispered in his ear, `The next time I meet you and Jake-mate here, I expect to hear about top dog and all that. Or do I have to get myself another team manager?'

Yes, Boss. No, Boss,' Roge whispered back. Top dog! Whatever you say, Boss.'

`Okay, Jake off you go on the double with Roge. He's then going to put you through paces you never even knew you had.'

`Yes, sir.'

Roge gave his new assistant a dig in the ribs with his elbow. It's Yes, Master' to you mate, when you address the boss.'

`Yes, Master. Sorry, Master.'

`That's what I like to hear,' I said.

With his arm around Jake's waist and with a big grin on is face the size of Sydney Harbour, Roge led him off towards the kitchens on the trail of the Peoples brothers.

I should have realised at that stage that things come in threes. Three sides on triangles and symbols of perfection and all of that sort of thing. But as I was driven to the Bank that morning, it already felt as if I had done a full day's work and that the rest would be downhill. How wrong you can be at time! Just how wrong!

It had been a particularly busy time for the bank due to a combination of issues. We had the reputation for efficiency which was true. We did get the best results always. Well, almost always. The New York branch is usually a strong contender, in placing bonds both in volume and by exclusivity of client. By that I mean we would place an entire issue of bonds with perhaps fifteen or twenty clients, while other branches would need up to a hundred of their clients at times for the same volume.

The joker in this particular pack of issues had been a new variety of `flu which had hit France and therefore had put three quarters of the staff at our Paris branch in their beds. They had promised to handle a Chilean bond placement and now had no one physically standing up to do it. So, give a guess where that placement ended up; the Dahran branch, of course, where we were engaged in placing a second tranche of the Austrian Bonds. To say nothing of final tidying up of the paperwork on the last issue of Korean bonds!

We were good all right, but goodness has its physical limits and the arrival of the Chilean bond placement had stretched our goodness to that limit. I was hosting a lunch for the ten staff directly involved in the placements over the previous week, including our unflagging telephonist who doubles as receptionist, who had ensured impeccable communications throughout. We had gone at midday for lunch to a good restaurant nearby, and had left a message with the bank's porter that it would be two-thirty before we got back.

Gustav Ahlson, the General Manager, was in good spirits.

Colin Bowman, the junior Partner, was beaming because he had beaten one of his PBs as he called them, his Personal Bests, in placing the largest amount of bonds ever in a single day's work.

Jack Tuttle was over the moon because he had been allowed to handle two clients for the first time and had told me at least four times that each of the two clients had taken five million worth of the bonds. I had not the heart to tell him that they always did and always for five million. Letting Jack handle them was the confidence booster we allowed each eager new young banker in the branch. Maybe it is the cynic in me, but I thought that he might even be thinking of the first results-related bonus that he would get at the end of the year.

However, all of this jollity and reverie was soon to be shattered when the Bank's minibus drew up outside the Bank, and we waltzed in full of the joys of life and a good lunch.

I was still blinking coming in out of the sun, when this voice said from one of the sofas to the left of the foyer, `Jonathan, there you are!'

I looked and time froze. As I turned, I saw Jock Tuttle's face to the side over by the foyer sofas. I was paralysed in shock.

`Jonathan, we've been waiting.'

It was my sister Elizabeth and her husband, my brother-in-law Jock Tuttle!

Jack's parents were in Dahra! I looked at Jack. He was white and aghast. He clearly had known nothing of this.

`Elizabeth, Jock, what a surprise! How long have you been waiting?'

`Ages, darling,' said Elizabeth as she gave me a peck on the cheek.

Not more than five minutes,' Jock said. The porter said you were due back at half-two and it's half-two now. For some reason, security over there wanted to alert you, but Elizabeth, of course, wouldn't hear of it. She wanted to surprise you and I think we did.'

Jack saved my vocal chords and the expression of turmoil raging through my brain, by intervening.

`Dad, what a surprise! Mum, you look beautiful! What a surprise! What a surprise!'

Like rats abandoning a sinking ship, the others in our restaurant party had disappeared up the stairs or into lifts.

`What are you doing here, Jock? I had no idea you were coming. Jack did not tell me.'

I was looking at Jock, grasping as I was at the straws of the implications of their visit.

`Jack lad did not know. We only decided this week after we heard about that coup d'état or whatever it was you have had here. It took three days to get a visa. Three whole bloody days. It was worse than trying to get into Fort Knox. Elizabeth's idea really.'

Of that, I could be quite certain. I knew my sister and upon later reflection, I wondered why it had not happened sooner.

`It was a small invasion which was put down quickly. But that is past history. Where are you staying? Have you booked in anywhere?' I said, quickly changing the topic from one of danger to one of accommodation.

`The Dahran Diamond, that five-star place with all the glass.'

`Yes, I know it.'

I breathed a partial sigh of relief.

`Strange thing though. We booked a suite over the phone from Edinburgh, no problem. But when we were signing in, the clerk at the reception asked if we were here for business or pleasure. Before I could say anything, Elizabeth said we were here to see our son, Jack and her brother, Sir Jonathan Martin. I think they must know you, Jonathan, old boy, because the General Manager himself came out in a rush and upped the suite to the desert-something-suite at no extra cost. You could tee off, I swear, Jonathan, in the suite they have given us. I think it runs one whole bloody side of the hotel.'

`Yes, indeed, Jock, Dahrans in business can be very generous. I think the hotel has an account here. That would most likely explain it.'

I was beginning to get back my composure. My heart beat had come down from the danger zone. Jack's complexion had started to return to normal.

I heard Jack say, `... but Mum, we saw you and Dad only two months ago in London. I have phoned you twice in the last week and Fiona as well. You never said a word about coming to Dahra. We have nothing prepared. Fiona will be in a tizzy.'

`Jack, darling, we have only come to see the bairn. To see Fiona and yourself, of course and the house where you live. You have not told us about that at all. A couple of rooms more than enough for a young banker and his family is what Fiona said. You haven't told me anything about your house.'

If I could feel a tightness in my forehead, I was wondering what Jack must be feeling around his balls. Elizabeth can be so single-minded that a division of the Panzer Grenadiers would not have a chance under her onslaughts.

Jack had looked at me for help.

`Elizabeth, Jock, you must be exhausted from travelling! Even the New Concorde can be tiring. It was the Concorde you took to Bahrain?'

I had been doing mental arithmetic with airline schedules and the time of their arrival at the bank.

`No one works during the heat of the afternoon. We at the bank set slightly different hours. Can I have the Rolls drop you back to the Hotel, so you can rest an hour and let me invite you to dinner this evening at the Hotel? I believe they have the most divine menus in all of Dahra.'

Jock took the hint immediately and said, `Yes, dear. Let's get back to the hotel; rest a bit, and then we'll meet for dinner. At what time, Jonathan, do people eat here?'

`Usually around eight, Jock' I replied.

`But what about Fiona and baby Jason?' Elizabeth said.

Mum,' Jack interjected, don't worry. I'll collect them both. We are only about ten miles away in the countryside.'

`Okay, darling. Let's meet for drinks at seven and dinner at eight,' Elizabeth finally relented.

I rang the Manager of the Hotel before the Rolls was out of sight. He would need special instructions for handling both of them and in particular, to keep me informed morning, noon or night of anything they attempted to do while they were here in Dahra.

End of Chapter 8

To be continued