This is the eighteenth chapter (ex twenty two) of a novel about present-day slavery and gay sex. Keywords: authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, submission, gay, sex If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage now.
Chapter 18 -- The hegemony of drugs
Hospitality in Dahra demands an open house -- at least it usually feels like that and Bob Conrad as maitre d'hotel was in his element keeping an entire team of slave waiters and acolytes busy each evening after the house warming of the Lemon Palace opening .
However, I did not leave my duties as Master of the Palace unfulfilled and every evening including when unexpected visitors were present and who were usually taken or a walk in the gardens by members of the medical team or David Tuttle or whoever might be staying at the Palace or a guided tour of some of the floors, I would sit on the veranda to hear the requests of my slaves.
While sitting there I did notice a marked increase in marine-like teams of slaves jogging past or between various buildings. The reward programme of the day on the beach was the hit of the summer.
About the sixth day into that particular programme, I noticed that the slave who had led the raiders on their ill-planned attack on the Lime Palace was in the line and as he came up to me, his obeisance was book-perfect. I also noticed that Jerzy, his assistant Supervisor, was over to one side observing him.
It is quite common I find that slaves who are not sure of themselves get a companion or buddy, to stay close when they are approaching me for something. It is as if their exterior machismo and bodily strength are not matched inside with equal maturity and confidence.
As the raider-slave got up from his obeisance of kissing my feet, I observed his side-glance at Jerzy who nodded his approval, as if to say, `so far so good'.
The raider-slave had planned his little speech of thanks for allowing him to go to the beach; that he thought that he would have been denied the permission to go, because of what he had done. He was grateful to me beyond measure.
As he knelt before me, I realised that he was one of the first of my slaves whom I had half-gelded to temper his violent behaviour and unbridled leadership. The half-gelding had obviously worked, but for the life of me, I could not even remember the slave's name among the thousand whom I owned.
His speech of thanks had stopped and he looked confused at the close attention I was giving him, as I do to each who come to seek my favour -- for such is part of the duty and responsibility of being a Master.
I let my hand run over his perfectly smooth head -- he was one of the four slaves who had the depilatory cream applied to their heads, as well as the rest of their bodies. His skin was warm on his neck and shoulder and I let my hand rest there.
`Master, I have forgotten all I wanted to say...I can't...'
`It is not important.'
In the presence of overwhelming authority and power, many lacking in confidence, training and education, can find their minds going blank when they most need to speak.
You have already said thank you'. That is enough. Have you a buddy?'
`No, Master. I service the others and the needs of Overseer Jerzy.'
`Would you now like a buddy of your own?'
`Oh, yes, Master. I would love to have my own buddy.'
His dark eyes shone with the desire of having his own, the lashes on his eyelids reached back almost to touch his eyebrows. With the tip of a pink tongue, he moistened his lower lip. I ran my fingers over the soft skin of his cheeks and held the cleft of his chin between thumb and forefinger. His eyes were on mine awaiting a decision, anxiously hoping for the fulfilment of a status which most of the other slaves had already attained.
`I see that there are more in the line. Wait with Jerzy until I have finished and then we will walk and talk together.'
As the line of slaves finished and I dealt with their requests or simply listened to what they had to say, it dawned on me that the most powerful of the world's drugs are not the physical and chemical ones of cocaine or heroine or the synthetics, but those which human interaction creates in the minds of people, such as the drug of power and authority, the drug of conceit and arrogance, the drug of adulation, praise and thanks.
In my own mind, I feel that I am not addicted to power or authority. Others would disagree with me on that score. Certainly, I have both and use both. But my authority is also spread among six Heads of Household and Stables and some thirty Overseers and assistant Overseers. And I let them get on with their work without being overly intrusive. Well, at least, I think and believe so. It is the same at the Bank with a General Manager and a series of others.
I have seen those who are addicted to power and authority -- Rashid al-Akhri, brother of my good friend Tariq, for one, comes to mind--whose slaves by all accounts and from what I have seen myself on the one visit to his Palace, live in total fear and terror of his temper and personality, which is a different problem.
Then there are those slave-owners in Dahra whom I have met have a conceit and arrogance in their ownership of slaves, in that they believe that only time-honoured traditions work and so flog, or have flogged each new slave on the day of their purchase and brand them on the hip, or on the ankle with the mark of their particular family or house. The fanciful pride of these owners will have them believe that their slaves are well-trained when, in fact, the slaves are barely copying what others do and therefore their households rely on the employed help of freemen -- and to a very small extent here in Dahra -- of free women.
However, I would say that I am hooked on the triple drug cocktail which answer to the names of adulation, praise and thanks.
One slave owner, my neighbour Musab al-Atti was quite shocked that I thank my slaves for doing what they do for me.
They are slaves. That is what they were born, or bought to do,' was the exasperated comment. Do you thank your car, or a camel for carrying you to work? It is the same with a slave. He does the work, or you get rid of him. It is as simple as that.'
For my friend Musab, it was just that simple. For me, it went deeper. A slave is one step up from the car, or the coffeemaker I may or choose to use. I cannot say that I have ever made extensive use of camels, except when much younger in Egypt and that was merely to be able to say I had ridden them. A slave is capable of great loyalty; capable of being trained to a high degree; capable of being hurt to a high level, such as would not register with an inanimate object. A slave is also a sexual object, which no matter how great a fetish the person may have, the coffeemaker or camel is not.
So when a slave thanks me for giving him a buddy, or the chance to do a job, or the opportunity to serve me, I listen and receive that gratitude sincerely given as a sign of affection to me in my status as owner.
It was once said and I remember the phrase, that `flattery is the fruit most served in Palaces'. It may well be so and undoubtedly there is some of it in my Palaces, but for the most part the foundation of the thanks I receive to my mind is sincerity and I do feel that slaves, who in their majority are out working the farm lands of the Palaces, are not so sophisticated in double intentions.
That particular evening, the doctors came wandering back with Musab al-Atti, one of my neighbours, from a stroll in one of the water-gardens.
`I am quite amazed, Jonathan, at what water does for this land of ours.'
`Yes, indeed, Musab, water and fertiliser and lots of compost, but most of all lots of direct slave labour. The heat and the climate, in general, do the rest.'
When my guests had departed, I found Jerzy and the slave whose name I had not remembered waiting for me at the edge of the gardens. Ben Trant, my secretary, had given me his folder to fill me in with the slave's details. At least now, I got his name from the folder. Yasser al-Salim!
Yasser al-Salim had been a farm labourer up around Tarim in the north and had missed out on the boom, which had brought education and prosperity to the country. For some unexplained reason, he had fallen through the cracks, ending up on a vegetable farm and with a small-time landowner, who had not enough to support his own family, let alone Yasser and his.
One thing had led to another and a series of robberies had led to the formation of the raiders' gang, which had terrorised the hinterlands of the Sheikdom for all of three months.
Now I looked at his slim, Arab body, further browned by twenty months' work in the Dahran sun, his flaccid cut member hanging down a goodly number of inches, his perfectly smooth coffee coloured skin finding only a disturbance of trimmed pubic hair over his genital area.
I cupped his sole ball, eloquent testimony of the power of a Master and a plaintive reminder to him of a lost companion ball.
`How many times a day do you come?'
`Twice, Master, once each morning and once at night with the companion of the night that our Overseer give us or as we must do.'
`Why do you think you merit a buddy now and how would you be a good buddy to him?'
Cautiously, Yasser replied, `After what I have done, Master, I do not merit a buddy. I only merit your punishment. If the Master gives me a buddy I will love him as much as I can and I will let him love me as much as he wishes.'
Twenty months of slavedom had done a lot to change the attitude of the arrogant raider, who had ridden into my courtyard firing off shots into the air and into the buildings, one of which had killed Marek Czyblonzki, Jerzy's friend and lover.
`What do you say, Jerzy?' I said to his assistant Overseer at his side.
`I think Master that Yasser is a good worker and he is genuinely sorry for what he did.'
`I will give you a chance with a buddy and you are to please him in bed, as if he were me. You will please him any way he wants.'
`Yes, Master.'
Yasser al-Salim was not a bad slave as slaves go. I had in my bed for a night and he had been totally submissive. It was not a question that the arrogant stuffing had been knocked out him after his capture and sentence, but rather now that he had purpose in his life determined by me, he did appear to have settled down a lot.
I looked at the list of unassigned slaves that Ben Trant, my secretary had ready for me, of those who were seeking buddies and chose one at random. The slave did not merit more than a random choice and I gave Jerzy my choice of name.
As I made to move away, Yasser dropped to his knees.
`Master, I would like to make a full obeisance to you. You are my Master. I want to thank you.'
I looked at the imploring eyes of the slave at my feet.
`Very well.'
The slave carefully pulled down the zip of my trousers. I was freeballing that evening, as our American cousins say. He took out my penis, as if it were made of sugar-lattice and putting his lips to its tip, he kissed it and said, `Master'.
Jerzy was looking on. Clearly this had not been rehearsed.
Master, neither have I ever given you full obeisance,' Jerzy said falling to his knees,' and before I could say yeah' or `nay', he too had kissed my penis in the most intimate and ultimate act of obeisance that exists in the Sheikdom of Dahra between a Master and a slave.
Jerzy too said simply, `Master'.
The following evening, Al Vine was in the queue of slaves to say thanks, for being assigned Yasser al-Salim as a buddy.
There was something different about Al and then I had it. He was not smelling of shit and the grunge of the sewage ponds. I commented on it.
`No, Master, the buddy you assigned to me insisted that he wash me down completely after work and did it twice, until he could no longer smell the fertiliser and production unit on me and then he put on a light coating of the Aloe sap, which as you see, sort of buffs up the skin.'
`I want you to report back to me in a month. Have your buddy, Yasser, take some sex technique classes with Frank Kovacs. Do you understand?'
`Yes, Master.'
`He may not be too expert in giving you a lot of pleasure.'
`He did last night, Master. I think also he was scared shitless that he wasn't going to please me. Am I to please him as well?'
`Yes, Al, that is what buddies are for. Not just company so that you are never alone, but also as a sexual outlet for the very copious amounts of semen that ball of yours must hold.'
`Yes, Master, and Master, could I sit in on one or two of those sex techniques classes as well,' he said with half a grin.
`Why, Al, not all that confident in bed?'
No, Master, it's just that sex has always been more of wham, bam, thank you,' with me. Cathy, my wife, used to tell me to slow down at times, but when I'm in, there is usually no stopping me. Even I could see last night the way that Yasser was going about things, which I never even knew you could do, let alone that you were supposed to do, that there's more to sex than I know. Well, Master, it's just I'd like to know a bit more about sex, if that's okay with you?'
`Okay, Al, classes for the two of you, whenever Frank or Raoul or Vitali can take you.'
Al Vine left me a happy slave. But then, he appears always to be happy.
I mentioned to my three Heads of Stables, Yuriy Obov at the Aloe Palace, Dumi Bod at the Lemon Palace and Komil Rostov at the Lime Palace, that there seemed to be a high number, when eighteen seemed high to me, of slaves who were unassigned buddies, or more accurately, between buddies. They had come to me with the monthly farm production figures. As I value their advice, I asked them their opinion.
Komil was silent.
Dumi said `Master, you assign them buddies. They must have regular sexual relief. Otherwise tensions build up without being noticed.'
Yuriy said with a grin, `Boss, have them lined up bent over at inspection each morning to be fucked by whoever wants a second helping of morning sex. That will help them make up their minds quickly.'
Komil was still silent, but grinning.
`Yuriy, I suppose you would be top of the line to do your duty. Look have these eighteen called now and I shall deal with them.'
Eighteen worried looking slaves where lined up in the courtyard. I told Ben Trant, my secretary, to have then lined up in order of seniority. Seniority for a slave is the date of ownership on which I acquired him, and if two are acquired on the same day, then by date of birth.
`A slave at my Palaces must have a buddy. Each of you have none. You are going to get one now. At the end of a month, like any other slave, if it pleases me, you can ask to change buddy.'
Pointing to the first slave, I said `Come here'.
The slave came to the spot beside me. I held out my left hand at the level of his genitals and he let his balls rest in my hand.
`Choose a buddy now.'
Embarrassed at being picked out in front of his fellow slaves, the slave looked down the line and pointed to a slave some seven or eight down the line.
The slave he had chosen came forward and he placed his balls in my other hand.
`You each understand your duties to your buddy?'
`Yes, Master.'
`Right,' I said, point to the chosen slave and indicated an area to my left, nodding as I did to Ben Trant to take note of the pairing.
`Next!'
In less that ten minutes, only two slaves remained who looked warily at each other - rather shyly I thought, but both with rampant erections.
`You two don't get a choice. You're now buddies,' I said to them.
Looking down at the erections of both slaves which were forcing back their uncut prepuces exposing tips of penis moist with precum, I said `it appears that you are happy already with each other'.
`Yes, Master,' they both said before taking up their positions with the others.
To my way of thinking the buddy system for slaves is most important as the slave has another who is closer to him than other slaves. His buddy washes him down in the shower. Jacks him off in the morning either on their joint pallet or in the shower and is available for full sex at night, if that is what the other wants, and if not so, then a hand or mouth job. It is not just a question of social slave science, it is a question of testosterone levels being kept active and healthy by frequently enjoyable bouts of sex.
Tariq al-Akhri returned from his usual European summer tour by early September and invited me to lunch at the Ministry, where he is Deputy to the Deputy Finance Minister of the Sheikdom. His two bosses are political and tribal figureheads and the true financial running of the country is left to him and in some way, still not fully clear to me, to his younger brother Abdou who lives in a symbiotic public finances arrangement with him but based in Geneva, Switzerland, where he has some job of arranging the long-term financial survival of a country with only two limited products -- oil and gas.
The lunch was part business, part pleasure, part renewing the acquaintance. The business we dispatched quickly. Nothing great had happened over the summer months and the Bank was performing admirably on all fronts for the Sheikdom. Tariq's numerous family had become even more numerous, I had heard on the grapevine, but when one has four official wives and I believe a number of concubines or lesser wives, also at his Palaces, the birth of so many children is not as much to the fore as with Western families.
Tariq, however, did surprise me in asking me to buy a slave from him.
`Of course,' I said, without missing a breath.
Four and a half years in Dahra had added to my education more than I could ever have imagined.
I did not intend to pursue that topic. Tariq would have his reasons and in due course, the slave would be delivered and I would receive a tan folder of his details.
Tariq looked across the table at me. I was about to raise another topic, when Tariq said, `You will be doing me a favour and I shall owe one.'
`Tariq, you will owe me nothing. Whatever your reason, it is a business transaction. I need a slave, I suppose, somewhere in the Palaces. You want to sell one. It's as simple as that.'
`Not quite, Jonathan. The slave in question I have always quite liked and he has always worked well for me, genuinely polite, courteous, reliable. He is a Greek-Cypriot and a former supermarket worker. One of my wives has become pregnant by him.'
I put down my knife and fork.
`You can't be certain, Tariq.'
`Yes, I can, Jonathan; because I arranged it. I mentioned to you before that one of my younger sons was killed when rockets hit the hotel during that ill-fated invasion..'
`Tariq, I am so sorry.'
`It happened and that was that. However, my wife took it very badly and said she wanted another son by me. However that is impossible as I had a vasectomy just a year ago.'
`All of this will go no further than this table, Tariq. What you say is a confidence.'
`So I agreed with my wife that she would choose one of the dark haired slaves in the household and get pregnant by him. The slave only went to her bed once and when the pregnancy test was done last week, she is now pregnant. I am now getting rid of that slave so there is no future problem. The slave is good and obedient and I have bedded him myself a number of times. He has always tried to please.'
The rest of the lunch was an anti-climax and we talked intimately of the small things that only two true friends can talk of freely and uninhibitedly.
That was how I acquired Fotis Maneates the following Wednesday. I sent Tariq a cheque for twenty seven thousand euro, the same price he had paid for him. The slave's price was more than the usual because he was exceptionally beautiful in a Mediterranean sort of way.
More than his purchase alone, something else happened at the auction.
On the Thursday, I had gone down to al-Mera, because the slave centre had cross-referenced some Brazilian slaves, who had worked on vegetable farms. I thought I would look at them, but when I did, I was immediately turned off. Maybe it is because after a while I get this gut feeling about the slave. But the three I saw spelled trouble. There was an indefinable something in their demeanour. I let them stew at the auction and as I did my eye went to the Lot 27 on the catalogue and I felt cold.
Rashid al-Akhri was selling two slaves. I remembered the two slaves I had bought from him, Greg Logan who was being tortured to death and Ali Tisani, the Kurd with the tongue of gold, who had been half starved in a horse-stall and was now in the ownership of Aziz al-Aziz, my Head of Household at the Lime Palace.
Two heavily infibulated slaves took their places on the central viewing dais. The rings in stainless steel or similar were going through the urethra of the penis and pulling the penis down some inches below their balls.
The fact that two slaves were being put up together was a coded signal from the auction house that it was almost a case of two for the price of one. While that might sound a sort of bargain, unless you were talking of speciality slaves or twins, it usually masked something deeper. Either the slaves were mad, unruly, ill-trained, or hard to manage to mention but a few problem areas. It could be a number of things, or a combination of things.
With the number of slaves I own, it is bad enough trying to remember names of the farm or stables slaves. The house slaves, you come to grips with after a while as one meets them quite regularly, but the farm slaves you don't come across them quite as much.
Yet here the two slaves before me were ringing bells from somewhere. I had seen them before, but where?
As I was musing over this, the two did the usual turnaround for the bidders to see them from all angles and there was the reason for the two being up together. Both their backs were a mass of scars from multiple whippings and floggings. Even at a distance, it was quite evident that not a square inch on their backs had been spared the whip, or whatever instrument had inflicted its punishment on them.
I flicked through the folder in my hands to browse quickly through their details. They were two Russians -- I could have guessed that from their Slavic facial features and light mouse-brown hair. Both were former sailors on a merchant ship out of Murmansk on the Arctic Ocean, both found drunk on the street in Dahra one early morning, which I thought was quite a feat for an alcohol dry city and both were sold at al-Qatim three weeks later.
And then it hit me, these two had been part of a `Russian brigade' of slaves, as I had called them to myself, the time I had bought Jerzy, Marek and Sergio some four years previously.
While my slaves had fared well, apart from poor Marek who had been killed by a ricochet during the ill-fated raiders' attack on my properties, the other two very now valued supervisors on the farm and with the medical staff respectively. These two before me had clearly fared badly, and not only that, they were going to fare worse, attracting no interest from the assembled bidders, at all. None whatsoever. I could almost hear my mind click. Why buy two difficult slaves? Why buy a disruptive pair?
I got up from my seat and went over to the first of the pair. While the eye can be deceived, the skin of the fingers cannot. I let my hand run over the hairless chest of the slave, down his belly, down his thigh and back up to cup his balls. He did not move, nor did his breathing change. He had not been flogged or whipped on his front. I turned him round and ran my hand down his back. It was like touching the ridges of a rock face there were so many sections of broken flesh under the skin.
I went to his companion who was just as bad. The companion had very similar features to the first though slightly fairer hair, which might have just been bleached by the sun.
I was missing a detail somewhere here and called over one of Ahmed al-Atti's, the auctioneer and owner of al-Qatim, assistants.
`Why are these two so badly beaten? It makes them have little or no value and it suggests they are unruly.'
`Yes, Sir Jonathan, we have been told that their Master has frequently beaten them to get better results out of them.'
`Doing what?'
`One working on a corn-mill and the other on a water-mill. As you can see, neither are greatly burned by the sun, as they were usually working inside in the shade.'
`That hardly adds to their value with the way their backs are.'
`No, Sir Jonathan.'
`And why are they being sold now? Still unruly?'
The assistant smiled, `I believe, Sir Jonathan, that your bank has just financed the electrification of their owner's mill and factory.'
I could not but smile back at the irony of it all.
I went over to the two slaves and looked at them. They were in a sorry state. Both had been infibulated through the urethra with a large stainless steel ring, which was matched by two in their ear lobes and two in their nipples. Whoever had done all of that needed to be in total control of the slave, because the rings were large enough to put your entire hand through and hold with your clenched fists.
I did something which I have very rarely done. I asked the two if they wanted me to buy them.
I think the first open choice given to them in a long time shocked them, because I had to repeat the question in different words. Either that or they did not understand plain language.
`Do you want to be my slaves and will you accept me as your Master?'
It is a question that I have at times asked in the past and determines an entire future. In this case, two futures.
One looked at the other. They did not speak and then they sort of nodded their heads at the same time. I thought it was a bit impolite, in fact, more than a bit not to reply to a direct question from a Master, and surely they must by now understand some Arabic, but the assistant at my side said, `They cannot speak, Master, they have bits inserted' and pointed to a column in his own file with an asterisk in it. I had never known its significance and had never bothered previously to ask the meaning of the asterisk in that particular column.
However, I extended the back of my hand to the nearest and raised it toward his lips. He got the message and bending from the waist down - a neck restraint being in place keeping his wrists firmly tied behind his neck, he kissed the back of my hand, his large earrings giving a strange look to his face. His companion did likewise.
I resumed my seat just in time to hear the assistant say, `Now, lot 27, two Russian slaves being sold as a pair. Both hard-working and well-trained. Will someone offer me thirty thousand?'
There was silence throughout the auction rooms. I could feel the eyes of both slaves on me.
I raised my catalogue and before the assistant could misunderstand my intent, I said `I will offer twenty thousand for the two of them.'
There was laughter throughout the room. No reserve was listed in the catalogue.
The assistant countered `Sir, they are hard-working slaves.'
`Twenty thousand euro for the two.'
This was followed again by total silence in the room.
The assistant auctioneer realised that there were no other bids materialising. It was one of those situations where even in the best run auctions houses that things go against the house. It was not a happening that occurred often in such a professional establishment.
Someone shouted from the back, `Going.'
Another shout from behind me to the sound of mild laughter `Going.'
A further shout of `Gone' and the audience had done the assistant's job for him, who was blushing furiously at what had happened.
He could only say, `Lot 27 sold for twenty thousand euro to Sir Jonathan Martin' and the applause of the audience followed.
I apprised Niko Ziel and Rob Kuiper of the impending delivery of the three slaves and told them to have them go to the medical team immediately.
The Greek-Cypriot was then to go to the first of the training compounds, with instructions to present him again to me after he had finished in the last of the compounds in five weeks time. As for the two Russians the medical staff could report to me.
End of Chapter 18 To be continued ...
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