The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor
This is the first chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and present-day slavery.
Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, sex, submission
The Dahran Sands is the eighth novel in the Dahran series
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Preface
There are those in life who are blessed with unchanging convictions. They appear to be born or launched on the seas of humanity with opinions as immutable and as fixed as the regular ebb and flow of the tides. They are fortunate in one sense; they need no education. The rest of us, and I include myself among the 'us', walk and run and fall, and learn to rise and walk again nursing our bruises and licking the wounds of experience.
This is essentially the underlying theme of the eighth volume of the Dahran series - we all have to learn. The Dahran Sands where I attempt to show that, even with the experiences of a lifetime, we are all permanently on a learning curve comprise based on previous experiences. If we can do that, then we will be unafraid of what the future holds.
This volume, like the previous ones, details some of my own experiences in the ownership, training and employment of slaves at my properties in the beautiful Sheikdom of Dahra.
I do apologise. I have not introduced myself. Martin, Sir Jonathan Martin, at your service.
I trust you will enjoy this volume as it traces the path of one who still even now has a lot more to learn from life.
Dahra,
November 200x
Chapter 1 - The first insight Wisdom does not come overnight (Somalian proverb)
The slave came whimpering and crying, dragging himself across the sand to collapse at my feet. How the mighty and arrogant had fallen! The training Supervisor looked at me and then at the slave, walked a pace over and landed a striking blow with his light and pliant three-foot camel-cane across the slave's buttocks. The slave continued his crawling progress with barely a reaction to the blow, his yucky nose running and his watering eyes firmly fixed on my feet.
I raised my hand as the training Supervisor was again about to strike. His blows would not be hard but would raise weals and, here, the Supervisor was merely showing that he was trying to ensure that the slave did not inconvenience me. The creature did not, as he grovelled at my feet.
The slave was now an overall tanned-brown after three week's being naked in the sun and a schedule of training every day morning and afternoon that had exposed him to the ever warm and dry Dahran climate and to its sun's powerful rays.
I hold myself to be a merciful slave owner and do not expect my slaves to be out in the noonday sun which could burn a pale skin a rough red in less than fifteen minutes. I have seen to it, with clear instructions, that my slaves always have access both to headgear and water; whatever the circumstances.
My training Supervisors knew this and saw that each slave, whether in training or not, was properly accommodated. While also giving each slave adequate slave biscuits for nourishment in and out of training, and a full eight hours' sleep at night, the Supervisors demanded with all my authority the attention of the slave during his every waking moment, as if I myself were physically present. I say 'his', because there are no female slaves at my Palaces.
The Supervisors got that attention through the administration of my own training programme which was a combination of voluntary opportunity, technique, pain, forced effort, minimal reward, and the repeating of the cycle of more of the same so as to draw the slave out of his own old self-serving mentality, and into a new thought process of serving me directly as the Master or, as more often than not the situation would have it, indirectly through my Overseers who are either Heads of Household or Heads of Stables. Stables is the old Dahran term for any service or farming performed outside the Palaces themselves, of which I own two, the Lime Palace and the Lemon Palace, and still own the lands of a third - my first and former home, the Aloe Palace.
I had disrupted a training programme by coming into the third compound. I really should not have, but I wanted to see the progress of this particular slave; and to be quite frank about it, I was not too impressed by what I had seen crawling across the sand toward my feet.
The two training Supervisors who run the third compound for me are Scott Billins, originally from Iowa and Bryce Sands, formerly from Texas. I would classify them as patient, untiring, unrelenting trainers who have my interests fully to heart and the total subservience of the slave in mind. While there is something to be said for not having to force a slave to bend a knee to secure his service and loyalty, there is a definite something in securing all of this through proper training so that the slave finally and totally accepts being just that, my obedient slave. His mind, not just his knee, has to be bent in servitude.
Bryce was now standing behind the slave as the slave crawled the final yard of sand and put his forehead on the ground and placed his two hands behind his head.
The slave said something, but '...have mercy on me, Jonathan,' were the only words I caught.
I ignored the slave's pleas and looked at the training Supervisor and asked, 'how is this slave progressing?'
'Boss, he has a long way to go yet before he gets out of this compound. A long way to go.'
I looked down at the former lawyer, a barrister actually, huddled at my feet.
'You have heard your Supervisor's comments. You have a long way to go yet in your training. Mercy does not yet come into what is left of your life in my service.'
Nodding to Bryce Sands, I said, 'carry on.'
'Okay, Nigel, let's start on those tyres once more,' the Supervisor replied and the slave started to cry softly.
Part of his training held and this was to be seen as the slave got to his feet, the head of a three-inch butt-plug visible between the cheeks of his buttocks, and he hobbled back to the thirty or so tyres in the middle of the compound, lying like unseeing eyes towards the blue desert sky, tyres through which the slave would have to run, and run, and run until times were perfected, the slave's body was toned and exercised, and in time, strengthened through a continuing loss of surplus fat and its replacement by solid fibre and muscle.
I remarked on the red weals on his buttocks in rows of threes as only a camel-cane can raise so perfectly. As the slave went back to his training, I looked at Bryce and asked, 'So how is he actually coming on?'
'As you can see, Boss, he has come through the first two compounds, he is only starting. He still does not fully yet recognise or believe that he is a slave for ever more, or that he is here to serve you alone or that his future is what you determine. As you can also hear even by his referring to you now by your name, he still does not get it. He still believes that is all a bad dream, that he will wake up and be back in London arguing some case in court, as he has said to me. No, Boss, he has a long way to go yet, to being even half a good slave. And thanks, Boss.'
'For what?'
'Master, for letting the slave see that his training is in my hands. For letting me do my job, Master.'
'Bryce,' I said putting my hand around the sun-warmed shoulders of the Supervisor, 'would I get between a slave and trainers like yourself or Scott?'
I felt Bryce's firm shoulder muscles under my fingers, toned and trained as a clued-in Supervisor of compounds should have his entire body. He is hard on himself and hard on those whom he trains, but at the same time, I have seen that he is eminently fair and equal handed in breaking those slaves sent to his and Scott's compound.
I stood a while looking at Nigel Broaders trying to negotiate the tyres lying on the sand, stumbling, falling, sweating, rising, running again with perspiration streaming off him in the mid-morning air. I saw the rictus of a grimace on his face, heard the gasping of his lungs as he made an effort to exert his body as it had never been exerted before. On getting up from one fall, the butt-plug in his anus was plainly visible and I thought to myself how uncomfortable even a three-inch one in length, this being the third compound, could be.
Large heavy nipple rings were swinging widely on the slave's chest. His fall had them bouncing against his chest and torso; their weight and size would be a cause of severe mind-bending pain as well. Nigel Broaders was unusual in this regard. All my slaves are deprived of all body ornamentation on coming into my ownership. In his case, I had put three inch stainless steel rings through his nipples simply to prove the point to him, and for no other reason, that I could do anything I like to his body. I did not even particularly like the rings themselves, ostentatious and all that they were. When his training was ever finished, I would order them to be removed.
Ah, yes, this slave, unfortunately on his own in the compound, would be well-trained by the time he left it and he would never ever forget that training! I knew that neither Scott nor Bryce would authorise the 'progression' of Nigel Broaders to the next compound until they were perfectly happy with his progress in their own compound. In my book, the slave had a lot of mental baggage and attitude to dump and shelve before he got anywhere near meeting with my approval! Whatever about his mental baggage, his physique was definitely improving even after the short periods he had been in this and the previous compounds. He was dropping surplus fat very fast.
It would all take time. Time was on my side and here at the Lemon Palace, my home, where I had time in abundance to train my slaves in the manner I wished so as to secure a perfect service from them for my pleasure, enjoyment and use.
Before leaving the compound, I said to Bryce 'keep me informed of this slave's progress.'
'Weekly, Boss?'
'Weekly.'
The second slave I wanted to see that day was Tony Sert, an English working class lad, now twenty five years of age, who had come as part of a batch of EU prisoners who had gotten rough justice from their respective countries' judicial system.
Tony Sert was one of the prisoners whom the EU states had sacrificed on the altar of prison budget cuts. Instead of financing the long prison stretch that would yet have lain before him, authorities had chosen a cheaper option by paying off the Dahran government and myself to make him disappear.
It had taken quite a while for him to adjust to being a slave and an even longer time to live in the knowledge that he had to be available sexually to me at any time. But on the same score, he had quite literally flown through the training compounds, not even receiving a single stroke of a camel-cane in any one of them, an achievement never equalled up to then, or since, among over seven hundred slaves in my present ownership.
He had simultaneously passed and failed a test I had set him, and when I had spoken with him one to one, it was as if the over-spilling floodgates of his wasted life up to that point could no longer hold back the grief he felt and laying out his life before me, he showed his trust in me and became a most valuable asset in my Palaces. Tony Sert now worked in the gym area of the Palace where every slave and Supervisor had to spend an hour each day in personal training and fitness techniques.
Tony Sert was heterosexual and for a slave with such a superbly muscled body, for all intents, a very modest young man. I did not give him time to offer me his body, but took him to my bed the very first day I saw him. I took his body and he neither resisted nor panicked at the time. He had been trained to obey by the procedures of five training compounds and he had responded well to my overtures and erotic touch and expertise. He surrendered his body to me as is my droit de seigneur. His anal virginity he had lost in the compounds as he was being trained in preparation for any request from his Master. It was not rape on my part, because in Dahran law, you cannot rape property and a slave is property. But man to man, it would have been another definition, in another place and time.
The day, Tony Sert was presented to me I took him in my bed and his clenching muscles under me had taken a long time to relax and to accept my dominion of his body. Indeed, it had taken Tony a while as it does with most of my slaves to adjust their minds fully to slavedom and to finally and willingly offer me the services of what I truly wanted, his very talented mind and intelligence. His superbly muscled and toned body was a mere bonus in the scheme of things.
I had put Tony in as an assistant to my gym Overseer, Rolf Hanzer. Many of the slaves envied his musculature, and made no murmur when he suggested to them improvements to their weights régime and, at times, 'spotted' them as they say in gym parlance or walked them through the more difficult procedures. Many other slaves, I was told, admired the warmth of his quiet, even-tempered, ever-patient personality. None of them ever knew that he had killed two inmates in an English prison as they had attempted to rape him. After that prison episode, his body building programme had started and no one had bothered him further in that prison. Once he had been shipped to Dahra, however, Tony Sert's training had forced him to accept that, just as any other slave's, his body belonged to me, his Master, and was not his own.
I stood at the edge of the gym of the Lime Palace. Some fifty or so slaves were going through their paces at this mid-morning hour when they take a break from the heat of the Dahran sun. Rota after rota would have been in progress from early morning until late at night until all seven hundred plus of my slaves at the three Palaces-the Lime and the Lemon, and those from the farms of the Aloe Palace-would have put in their daily gym hour.
One of Rolf Hanzer's assistants was supervising some slaves. My Dutch masseur slave, Klaas Oostende, and his assistant were giving two slaves rub- downs on massage tables; more were swimming in the Olympic sized pool beyond. It spoke of organisation and endeavour.
For all their proclaimed heterosexual habits, men love the touch of other men whether it is being given an Aloe massage, the wintergreen rubdown of a tender muscle, a Swedish massage, or even an undeniably good blowjob by the unseen mouth of an expert. The slave can always then pretend that it was sports related, therapeutic or downright accidental in not knowing whose mouth was on whose cock, and in my Palaces, they cannot be too 'surprised' that it was a man's mouth and tongue and not a female's. The surprise as to gender could not be the case in three Palaces comprised entirely of men. But by all accounts blowjobs were rarely refused.
It intrigued me to see various slaves going over to half a dozen computer monitors, press the screen and input something, and then sign off, frequently being followed by a queuing next slave.
One of the slaves drew Rolf's attention to my presence and he came over to me all-business. The gym area is of the few locations where slaves continue on what they are doing when I, the Master, arrive. There are too many weights being pressed and running machines working, or slaves in the water, for slaves to start dropping things or breaking swim lengths in obéisance to me their Master.
Rolf Hanzer is one of the first ten slaves I ever owned. Each one of these over the previous five years had risen to be Heads of function, Overseers or Assistant Overseers.
I have always believed that every slave in his slavedom, just as every freeman in his freedom, has unrealised potential which just has to be unleashed. Rolf was living walking proof of that. A former ski-instructor, he was now in charge of a multi-million euro investment in gym, sports and swimming plant for me in Dahra, including training programmes and a team of slaves at his orders.
'Boss, is everything okay? I didn't know you were going to visit.'
'Rolf, everything is spot on. Two questions. First, what are all those touch screen monitors?'
'They are screens where each slave inputs his own times or sets in his own personal training programme. Linked to the main computers, each screen is activated with a thumbprint; the slave puts in the data and thumbprints-out again. Its called TITO.'
'A Jens Johanssen invention, I presume?'
'Yes, Boss. Thumbprint-in and thumbprint-out. Very nifty. It includes the Personal Bests programme as well.'
Jens Johanssen is the slave genius who runs the computer systems of the Palaces.
'And the second question, Boss?'
'I'm thinking of building another pool and a second gym at the new Lemon Palace. The pool here is somewhat overcrowded,' and I waved a hand in the general direction of the pool. 'I am told your programmes and schedules are going from seven in the morning. My original wish, for security reasons, was that slaves from the different Palaces should not mingle but have their own schedules. But as you can see, Rolf, as we have grown that has not been the case.'
'Yes, Boss, until nine at night, and that's even excluding the slaves who might be on the beach programme every week. But it does not include sick or injured slaves.'
'Yes, of course. You now organise the beach programme as well.'
'Yes, Boss. Rather one of the new assistants runs the beach programme for me..., I mean, for you.'
'You don't fool me for a minute, Rolf. I am sure that the beach programme and its schedules were created by you with Jens left only to compute them.'
Rolf's shy smile told me I had hit the nail on the head.
'The question I really want to ask is who should run the new pool and gym at the Lemon Palace?'
As if on cue, Tony Sert looked up at us from the other side of the gym, before immediately going back to spot a slave on a bench lifting some weights.
'I think you have the answer before your very eyes, Boss.'
'I think we have, Rolf. Let's keep it to ourselves for a while, and get Tony a pair of shorts as befits a new Assistant Gym Overseer, though it is a bit of a shame to put clothes on such a perfectly muscled body. Just look at his perfect frame,' I said looking at a musculature that would have done any bodybuilder proud.
'A pity alright, Boss, but if he is to be the new Gym Overseer at the Lemon Palace, he'll have to start getting used at least to wearing some clothes again.'
'I'll have the original plans drawn up for this complex dusted down and sent over to you. Mark clearly in red what you want changed or laid out better.'
Rolf looked at me, and said quietly, 'Me, Boss?'
'Yes, you Rolf.'
'Thanks, Boss. Will do!'
I gave his short fair hair a rub, 'Rolf, I trust you like I trust my all my Overseers, and I respect your judgment.'
Rolf just looked at the floor of the gym, with that little half-smile of his that lights up his face when he is pleased. He has this ingratiating habit of testing programmes and not telling me about them until they are working one hundred per cent.
I thought to myself just how callously I could now think of employing and using slaves, without the slightest qualm or prick of conscience. Me, an Englishman! Such changes can be effected in the human personality in a mere fifty five months in a country like Dahra.
That Saturday, Roge Harte, a former Aussie Rules player was in fine form. He had the DVD of the previous Saturday's match in the machine and I knew that he would be rearing to go. We usually look at the matches one week late as it takes time for the DVDs to get to Dahra from Australia.
One of my hobbies is the ownership of the Hobart Gangers, a minor team of Aussie Rules football players, with a series of junior feeder clubs throughout the island of Tasmania and eastern Australia designed by Roge Harte, who was my slave in overall charge of it. The junior clubs already were contributing good solid players to the main club.
I find it quite a turn-on to have Roge lying on his belly over a low table as we look at the DVD. In Aussie Rules footie, the play is hard and fast for all of each quarter's twenty minutes and that for me is a turn-on in itself as one long, lanky, freely perspiring and rangy football player after another vies for the ball and the control of the play.
Roge was in place.
'Shall we start, Boss.'
I knew he would have already seen the DVD as he comments on the highlights and the good plays as we view it. I also knew that he would be fully lubed with lots of Aloe sap.
'Switch it on, Roge,' I said as I ran my hands over his perfect and firm buttocks of solid muscle under splendid and smooth globes of flesh. I was hard as I unzipped, and taking out my cock, I slipped it into Roge's waiting hole, already thoroughly lubed as I had surmised.
Roge felt my entrance into his most private part and started to squeeze and relax against my thrusts, as he had been extensively trained to do, not loosing a second of his commentary. The excitement of the sexual act together with the excitement of the play, where the straining and sweating footballers flashed across the screen and up and down the pitch, made it difficult for me not to ejaculate early. That had happened before, but with exercise and self- control and by stimulating carefully the erogenous zones of Roge's submissive body prostrate along the table, I was able to keep matters in hand.
Both Roge and I knew that I would not allow a release until the last minute of the first quarter. It was therefore a question of at least nineteen minutes of continuous gentle entrances and withdrawal. I found Roge to be in superb physical condition, and after ten or so minutes, his hole was not closing entirely after my withdrawals, he was able to respond fully to my thrusts with a gentle bucking and rotating motion of his hips. I also make a point of aiming for Roge's prostate gland as much as I can. He loves that, as the amount of precum always testify once he gets up off the table.
In the final minutes of the first quarter, I bent forwards and over Roge until I was lying flat on my belly over his back. His movements were restricted, and I let my tongue run along the back of his neck and just into his hairline. I blew into his left ear and he trembled. Roge has very delicate ears and with my open lips I started to kiss the side of his neck making little biting gestures with my lips alone. He really loves that.
As the play edged closer to the end of the first quarter, I ran my tongue under his jaw line, his maxilla. It is one of the advantages of me being taller than he. My hands had slipped under his armpits and were pulling his shoulders towards me, as I thrust deep and deeper into him, with increasing force. I could feel his rising sexual excitement and then, almost as he expected it, Roge turned his head to me, raising his chin and exposing his throat to me, for the first time unable to see the screen, effectively stopping the running commentary on the play. In total submission, his throat was mine and I nipped it with my teeth. It was not the leonine bite of a jungle king over one of his pride, it was a bite of love for a beloved slave, and that was more excitement than his body could take and he shuddered as his release occurred.
Roge's climax triggered my own, and I lay on top of him as the quarter ended.
'Stop the DVD.'
I picked up a towel from a side table and wiped myself dry as Roge picked himself up from the table. I handed him the towel and he quickly cleaned himself of semen and ran it between his buttocks.
'Thanks, Boss.'
'Bring in this assistant mate of yours now and lets see how the Club's accounts are.'
'Right away, Boss,' he said but stopping to look at me.
'What?'
'Boss, go easy please on Jake. He was barely able to sleep last night knowing that he was to present the accounts to you on his own for the first time. He's a good mate. He really is, Boss.'
'I know that, Roge, that is why I got him for you. To give you more time for the gym,' I said and patted his rock hard abs. 'Go easy on him, is that it?'
'Please, Boss.'
'Call him in and see if Bob is around with some beer.'
'Rigtheo, Boss.'
Jake Carter was a purchase about eight slaves ago. The slave centre had cross-referenced my previous purchases and ownership of two Australians, and gave me first choice. The twenty-four year old former fireman according to his Dahran data file had developed beautifully in the previous five months. Tall and lanky, his uncut cock was a delight to see for its length and girth, and his prominent hip-bones supported a well-trained frame.
I pointed to a spot on the floor beside my armchair. Jake dropped to the floor, putting some files to one side, and made a full obéisance as he had not seen me before that day.
Bob Conrad was at his heels and put down a basin of ice with four cans of Fosters lager half-floating in it, plus a jug of his famous lime-juice, from which he poured me a glass, discretely removing the soiled towel on the other side of the armchair. I nodded my thanks to him and watched his perfect butt undulate with inbuilt poise and leave the room.
'I hear you have prepared the Club accounts on your own for the first time?' I said to the slave kneeling beside me.
'Yes, Bo...yes, Master.'
'Start the second quarter, Roge, and let's see how the Club is doing in this match.'
I held out my hand for the first file and started to read with Roge's commentary acting as a foreground to the DVD playing.
The accounts were in fact better prepared than Roge's usual ones. Jake had good handwriting on the intercalating pages of explanation. There was nothing new. The Club was losing money as it normally did each month, and of the three million euro I had put in the previous January only one million was left and that would be well reduced by the end of the year with Christmas bonuses and such. But it was enjoyable. And what is a hobby, if not enjoyable? The money lost was less than the profit I made from my neighbours for providing two weeks' water supply to them.
I looked up and saw Roge looking at me. He had not presumed to take a beer. I nodded to him and he popped a can for himself.
'Which would you prefer, Jake, a beer or some lime-juice?'
'Whichever you are offering, Master, but a beer, if I have a choice.'
It was a very prudent way of replying. I nodded to Roge, who was grinning, as if to say 'I told you he was good'. In the previous months, Jake had watched Roge nurse his two beers and I had not offered him any, nor had Roge offered to share his. Maybe Fosters is too precious to share.
'See that two point five million euro is transferred to the Club accounts by the end of the year, Roge, and give Jake his beer.'
As I read the following reports about a new midfielder who did not look at all shy at being photographed in the nude for his medical, then a further one of the junior feeder clubs, and repairs needed for the pitch surface, I let my hand rest on Jake's shoulders as he knelt beside me. I let my thumb run up and down the short hairs on his neck, and I think as he sipped his Fosters that he pushed his head back against my fingers.
As Roge continued his commentary, I commented quietly to Jake, 'Are you looking after Roge each morning and night?'
He looked a little nervously at me and said shyly, 'Yes, Master. I suck him off morning and night.'
'He doesn't want more?' I asked looking at Roge engrossed as he would always be in a football match, even one he had seen a number of times.
'No, Master.'
Roge had been partnered by Daniel Saxon, of the two unfortunately enslaved American missionaries at one point, but that had obviously fizzled out.
I resumed my stroking of the slave's neck until the second quarter finished.
'Are you happy with the team's performance, Roge?'
'Yes, Boss. Overall, yes. It's costing you money. But it is money well- spent. They are up there in the league and showing good results.'
Owning an Aussie Rules football team is a long but enjoyable learning process, and the acquired knowledge resulting from it does not come overnight.
I enjoyed Roge's opinions and commentaries, and spent the last two quarters with one arm around Roge's neck on my right and my other around Jake's on my left, two favourite very sexy Australians.
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The Dahran Sands is the eighth novel in the Dahran series.
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