The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor
This is the second 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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Chapter 2: The barbers' shop A barber does not shave himself (African proverb)
I had gone for an early evening walk around the water-gardens, and as I walked back to the Palace itself to change for dinner, I was waylaid by the slave in charge of the hospital ward, Randy Tait, a young American not yet thirty, who had been an electrician in his former life.
When I said `waylaid', I did not mean it in the sense of importuned, but rather that like the well-trained and obedient slave which he was, he stood at a distance and caught my eye. If it were okay with me, he would be summoned over; if not, he would have to seek another day and time. For me, such matters are a question of time and motion. If I have the time, I am available; if not, Overseers and Supervisors know they can schedule it with my secretary. I beckoned Randy over.
`Boss, I think we may have a little problem.'
`Do we have a problem? Or do you think we have one?'
My slave in charge of the doctors' surgery and hospital ward has that gentleness of demeanour so essential in the caring professions and he looked a little embarrassed. He was the sort of slave that if ever I were sick, I would want him to look after me.
`If you have a moment, Boss, I'd like you to see something,' and he indicated the doctors' area and hospital ward across the courtyard.
Dinner could wait five minutes. Our hospital ward is small and is usually three-quarters or so full. One bed is usually occupied by one of the new slaves, the one who would have had Dr. Cal Thorson's full dental treatment on that particular day and who is kept under observation overnight for safety's sake. The other beds are usually occupied by those who had had minor surgery which is constantly needed among seven hundred slaves, from in-grown toenails, to appendicitis, to large-scale tattoo removal on any new arrivals, to the odd broken bone, and so on.
I noticed that all the lights were on in the hospital ward which we were approaching and that my assistant sex-trainer, the Russian, Vitali Belov, one of the slave Supervisors, was standing in the doorway, with two other slaves beside him, whom I recognised as the two Russian sailors who had been enslaved for being publicly drunk in alcohol-dry Dahra.
`Vitali,' I said in greeting otherwise he would not have spoken at all.
`Boss, good evening.'
I looked at him, waiting for more information which he gave by saying I think, Boss, Randy thought he might need an interpreter for these two,' and he tilted his head backwards at the two Russians who were standing at display'.
`Well, Randy, are you going to tell me what the problem is? Three beds full, lights on, everybody at home. Where's the problem?'
`Do you think the place looks clean, Boss?'
Clean?' I looked around. It was spotless. It's like you usually have it, Randy. Immaculate. I could have dinner off the floor and I could bounce a coin on those sheets.'
Boss, it's more than clean. It is super-clean. It's the same with Dr. Fournier's office. These two over here,' and he nodded to the two Russian sailors who had been patients in the hospital ward the previous days, begged me with all sorts of gestures to let them clean the ward and the surgery areas. They didn't stop until they had cleaned and scrubbed everything from ceiling to floor and back up again. They even arranged and folded my clean towels and sheets to perfection, and also the doctors' gowns. They have oiled the bed castors so they don't squeak. It's not a question of me ordering them as slaves to do something. They wanted to do it, not for me, but for you. I've never quite seen the likes of it. You name it and they have done it over the past two days since I discharged them.'
I smiled to myself at Randy's use of phrase in him `discharging patients' what was, of course, the doctors' rôle. I looked over again at the two slaves, who were keeping their eyes in the mid-distance.
They wanted,' Randy continued, to do more than say thank you with words for their surgery. So they cleaned the place up, and then they did something else, Boss, and that is why I wanted to speak to you. They cleaned themselves up. If you would care to inspect them, please.'
With two fingers, I indicated to the two former Murmansk sailors to come over. When they again stood `at display' in front of me, with their arms behind their necks, their chests inflated and pushed out, their gut pulled in, they did in fact look quite well-presented.
Then I noticed that not only was their skin buffed as happens when the Aloe sap is applied to it, and in the style of the my Palaces, their bodies were totally hairless, with the exception of their armpits, a very stylishly trimmed three centimetre band of pubic hair, and what I guessed was a No. 1 very close all- over crew cut, giving their heads a nice blondish stubbled colour.
As I ran my hand over the first slave's head feeling the soft texture of his closely cut hair, I could feel the healthy warmth emanating from his skin. When I touched his smooth face not a hair was to be felt -- nothing but soft skin. The slave had obviously been given at least two applications of the depilatory cream which we use to get rid of hair permanently and his face was now beautifully glabrous.
My hand went down his chest where there was not a trace of hair on his torso as one might find in a healthy young male of twenty six years, but only the smoothest of smooth skin.
`This is Lev, Master' Randy said at my side.
I know Randy long enough now to know when he is trying to impress me. But impress me with what? A well- presented slave?
I cupped the slave's balls and noticed how soft and warm they were, in a firm scrotum of tight wrinkled skin nicely set off by the trimmed pubes.
With one finger on the slave's hip, I turned him round to see the almost polished skin of his back such was the sheen of the Aloe cream. It was only when I touched the skin of his back, that the information which was deceiving my eye was completed by the information coming from the touch of my finger tips. Touch is never deceived in these matters and the beatings the slave had received had left their subcutaneous marks.
While the two slaves had undergone basic Dahran slave training at the dealer's before they were sold to Rashid al-Akhri, whom I always regard as sinister, they would have learned basic commands in both English and Arabic; I could see that Randy was leaving nothing to chance by having Vitali present as a Russian translator.
`Master, if I can have the slave bend forward for you,' Randy said and he nodded to Vitali who trotted out something short in Russian.
The slave bent forward and spread his ankles a full yard apart.
`See, Master, how well he was mended after his hernia operation.'
Randy was still selling something. But what?
I saw a surgical mark to the back of the hairless balls and firm perineum coming up to a very brown puckered anus, again devoid of every single hair. I let my fingers wander up from the soft balls to the anus which was relaxed, and up and around two splendid rounded and plump buns.
I gave the slave a smack on the backside and he stood up straight and again faced me `at display'.
The second slave immediately stepped forward half a pace for his examination. I saw the look he gave Randy as much as to say, `this is what you told me to do and I am doing it'.
`This is Rurik, Master,' Randy murmured.
I inspected the slave closely and he too was perfectly turned out in his nakedness. The only true difference was that he had no hernia scar, but rather a still rather bruised anus where the Palace surgeon had operated on him to tighten him up after the abuse of Rashid, his previous Master.
`Well, Randy, what are you trying to say? I am impressed with two very well-turned out slaves, who have obviously wanted to say thank you to you and Dr. Fournier for their operations and care.'
`Boss, not to me or the doctor. Definitely not to me! To you! You are the Master. They are trying to say thank you to you as the Master, and it struck me that seeing how they have presented themselves that it would be a waste to have them just working on the farms.'
I looked at Randy. Then at Vitali. Then back at Randy.
`Where then? You want another two hospital orderlies?'
`No, Boss. I found out that on board their ship they were sort of unofficial barbers to the crew, and I thought that instead of having the slaves here at the Palaces doing their own haircuts and using the Aloe sap and the depilatory cream very irregularly, that you might agree, if you think it worthwhile, Master, it is just an idea...'
Randy was beginning to hyperventilate.
`...that Lev and Rurik might become the barbers here. There's a storeroom not being used over behind the garage...'
His words had run out as I looked at him in silence.
`And how long have you been dreaming up this, Randy?'
`Just since yesterday, Boss; when I saw them at work on each other when they had cleaned Dr. Fournier's office for the second time.'
`But who would look after them, supervise them and make sure that they did their work?'
`Master, it would be no trouble for me to ensure that they did exactly as you wanted,' Randy said humbly his eyes downcast towards the ground.
`What have you suggested to them?' I said a little sharply.
`Oh, nothing, Boss, absolutely nothing! I wouldn't say anything like that to them without getting your full permission first. They think you are inspecting them nothing more. I would never say anything that you or Dr. Fournier did not want or had not approved previously.'
`I know that Randy. Just teasing. I think that what you are suggesting is an excellent idea. Get Stan Mercer's approval for the use of the storeroom and whatever you need. Have them start at the top of the list with the Overseers. Then have them work their way down the lists of slaves in date of acquisition order and if there are any complaints you will hear them soon enough and I will know them from you a day later.'
`Boss, thank you. Thank you. I'll see that they don't let you down. You are going to have some perfectly turned out slaves in the Palaces.'
Randy was grinning.
`Just one thing, Randy. If they are going to set a style for the Palaces, I want to see only a band of three to four centimetres of pubic hair over the cock. Arm-pits are not to be touched. You know I like the look and smell of hair and sweat in the arm-pit. Let them set the hairstyles to suit the slave's head, either this buzz cut that they are now sporting, or a high an' tight as Yuriy wears, or the crew cut that I see at the moment here on Vitali. All other hair styles are out. And after that, all body hair is gone. Absolutely gone. The same with tattoos. If they find a tattoo, the slave is back to you for its removal.'
`Yes, Boss. Thank you, Boss.'
`Now I had better go in to dinner. I have guests this evening. By the way, see that these two get the regular and proper language classes in English and Arabic. We can't be wasting Vitali's time every time you want to tell them something or you for that matter half-guessing what they are saying.'
`Yes, Boss,' a happy Randy smiled, and I realised that yet again, he had asked for and got something for others and not for himself.
Randy was up there in my esteem as one of the best of slaves, better still as one of the best of slave Overseers, never seeking anything but my pleasure and my service. He served me through his work in the surgery with Dr. Fournier and in looking after the hospital ward of the Palace. A slave modest of his own ability. A slave devoted to his doctor and to his Master.
The episode with the two Russian slaves was a confirmation to me that many of us in life make the best of the opportunities which present themselves around us. We may have, like the two slaves, very little chance of doing much, but what we can achieve, we do. This, I found, was a pattern among my slaves at the Palaces. All would do my bidding when ordered, but some had the knack of finding a niche for themselves, like Flavio my chef, Marko my ice- cream maker, or Ben my secretary, as indispensable cogs in a greater wheel.
There is no doubt that we judge people harshly, and while they say that `first impressions are lasting', at times our initial reaction to a person can be unduly and unfortunately negative. One such person of my acquaintance in Dahra was her Honour Khalila bint Omar. This petite lady was one of Dahra's three criminal judges, though I had heard in passing also that her original speciality as a lawyer was in property law.
Thankfully, I have rarely had occasion to be in the criminal court of Dahra and seeing the Scimitar of Dahra being paraded in before its three judges was quite enough to make one lose one's appetite for attendance. The Scimitar was no ceremonial blade of polished steel but an instrument of justice and execution used when required, and not infrequently by all accounts. Seeing her Honour on those two occasions walking behind the raised blade caused me to ask myself as to which was the most dangerous the Scimitar or her Honour. The latter, I had in all honesty to reply to myself.
My opinion of her Honour's social graces was not improved when she assigned the surviving mercenaries of that ill-fated coup to my ownership, and the chill that I had felt on that occasion was cold admiration for her determination and sang froid, her play of judicial politics and her cool administration of Dahran justice.
Now, in my office at Deckams, the Bank where I work and am a partner, as I looked across my desk at Karim al-Kibbe, one third or so I am led to believe of Dahra's entire practising criminal lawyers, her name had risen in conversation.
Rarely, in Arab civilisations are things to the immediate point. Straight lines are curved, if not zigzagged, and frequently one is obliged to join all the dots to get the picture. Dahran culture is no different.
Karim al-Kibbe just happened to be in the vicinity' and thought he would drop in to say hello' to me. Karim's normal vicinity is the courts all of half-a- city distant, and unless crime had been visited on our financial suburb, Karim was off base by a couple of miles.
`Karim, let me invite you to lunch. You have not seen our restaurant upstairs. Let's have a bite to eat before the lunchtime rush starts.'
As he consented immediately and easily, I knew that his initial excuse for coming to see me was a little hollow.
`I had an interesting case this morning before her Honour bint Omar,' he commented as we sat down to a bowl of soupe à l'oignon au Gruyère.
I looked across the table at him and merely said, `In what sense interesting?'
`Oh, it started off as a case of theft of some bread by a hungry slave from his two masters, who are brothers, but it developed into one about which of the brothers had the right the punish the slave, the elder brother or the one who had bought the bread. At that stage, it was completely off the tracks for any conciliation to be effective, the brothers fell out and the case came right into the court. I was representing the elder brother.'
`So what happened?'
`This was what in English you might call a Petty Session with only one judge, her Honour bint Omar. The Sheik himself was not sitting, and the Scimitar of Dahra was on the bench. Her Honour having heard the evidence from the brothers stated that the slave could not have stolen the bread from his masters as a slave in Dahra is property and property cannot steal property. One issue was cleanly out of the way.'
I had to smile to myself at the simplicity of Dahran justice.
Her Honour then went on to say as no criminal act had been committed the slave was not to be punished by the state, at which both the slave and myself smiled. I could see where she had been coming from. When right there and then in the very court, the two brothers began arguing with her Honour who had the right to punish the slave privately when they got back home for having wasted their time, her Honour looked at me with a raised eyebrow, as if to say questioningly their time?' She then asked the brothers which part of the slave they valued most, to which one brother replied `the head' and the other said that he could not really tell her Honour in open court which part of the slave he most valued.
`Her Honour looked at the two of the brothers and ordered the Bailiff to take the slave into custody so that on the following morning his head could severed from his body and be given to the first brother, and that part of the slave incapable of being named in open court be given to the other.'
I just knew that Karim had to be joking and said so.
No, Sir Jonathan, she was deadly serious. She was talking of dividing up a piece of property and that was that. However, both the brothers realised that they were going to end up with a dead slave and his effective total write-off, so they immediately backtracked saying that it was no longer necessary to have a decision from the court as they were not going to punish the slave at all, to which her Honour replied a wise and merciful decision for which this court thanks you'.
`As the brothers and the much relieved slave who had managed to keep his head and parts not capable of being mentioned departed the court, I realised that I still had my plaintiff's costs in my hand which required her Honour's signature, so I went back to her chambers to get it.'
`When I knocked and was told to enter, I found her Honour seated at a side table looking at your own coffee table publication The Cacti of Dahra. She said something to the effect that she would love to see the original gardens some day as for her the cactus was a symbol of the Sheikdom of Dahra itself, a survivor among perils, native of the region, small, yet beautiful.'
She saw the sheet of costs in my hand and as she beckoned me to give it to her to sign, I presumed, I regret to say..., Sir Jonathan..., to comment... that I knew you and if her Honour wished I could find out if and when your gardens might be available to view. She answered that would be delightful'. I'm sorry, Sir Jonathan, but I walked myself into it with my conceited presumption. I do apologise and will understand as indeed would her Honour, if your gardens are not available'.
I laughed at Karim al-Kibbe's discomfort and let him stew in his own embarrassment until the fish arrived, a nice sole meunière au beurre with haricots verts and mange-touts. I found myself wondering if the beans and peas acquired in the open Dahran market were actually from my own Palaces' vegetable farms.
`Karim, any time that her Honour would care to visit will be fine with me. Please suggest to her that I would like to have her as a guest for a weekend, and any weekend that is suitable for her is suitable for me. If she agrees, I shall send the car up for her and she will be my honoured house-guest.'
Sir Jonathan, I don't know whether to say phew' or `thank you'. It was a stupid thing of me to have said in the first place.'
`Don't give it a second thought. Just one thing, Karim, can you get me a résumé on her Honour, who she is, etc?'
`Consider it done, Sir Jonathan.'
In the weeks following its opening, the barbers' shop or the `beauty parlour' as it was more jocosely called was an outstanding success as the members of the Palaces were summoned in order of seniority to have hair, both head and pubic, trimmed and depilatory creams applied. Over the weeks, I noticed that general body care of the slaves had improved a lot, which together with the on-going Personal Bests programme saw me with a body of perfectly groomed and perfectly fit slaves.
In the eyes of some, such procedures might appear extravagant and wanton if not superfluous in the care of slaves, but I have always felt that my slaves must be well-fed and well-rested if they were to put a full day, starting at dawn and finishing at nine every evening. Also, a slave must have a sense of his own importance to me. Just as we discard rubbish, a slave who has no value will be discarded. He knows that. I know that. When the slave realises this, performance drops. And when performance drops, there is an economic loss in the greater scheme of things.
Given proper medical care and the other attentions of my Palace system, it does assure the slaves' good health towards a long life. Into the bargain, now with proper grooming, they were simply more pleasing to look at and this to a Master such as myself is also important.
What use is it to have a fine piece of furniture, if it is not polished? What use a car, if the engine is dirty and backfiring? So too with my slaves, I believe they must be in perfect physical and mental condition to be at my beck and call and subservient service, be it sexual or not, day or night should I so demand it. The barbers' shop was just one more step on that path.
Some things in the training of slaves bring pleasant memories. So it was with the barbers. I had given Lev and Rurik no further thought until Stan, my Property Manager, happened to mention during one of his regular updates that he had now given the two slaves permission to use the full storeroom where they were working.
`You must pass by there some time you are free, Boss. Those two barbers are almost as happy as Al Vine.'
Al Vine looks after the Palaces' sewage treatment plant and always appears happy.
It was not for some days that I happened to be in the barbers' direction when talking to some of the Overseers. What in fact caught my eye was a slave sitting on a bench outside an open door, and upon spotting me coming round the corner of the building, he went on his knees in a full obéisance.
Then I noticed the red and white barbers' pole affixed to the storeroom wall, a spiralling band of colour of the services being offered within.
I looked at the Supervisors with me and it was not until Yuriy Obov ran his hand over his closely cropped crew-cut that the penny dropped. He too had had a haircut at the barbers. I looked at the others, who were now grinning, and realised that they too had availed of the new service.
Inside the converted storeroom, or rather the barbers' shop, two professional looking barber chairs were occupied by two slaves covered with white sheets one from the neck to the knees, the other from the neck to the waist. The two barbers at their work looked up at the unexpected entrance of so many at once into their shop and were about to make an obéisance when, with a flick of my fingers, I indicated them to continue.
One slave was being given a regular if somewhat close haircut; the other was having his pubes attended to with what appeared to be a set of tweezers in the hands of ....yes, it was Rurik.
Also, what struck me was that both slaves had their feet in buckets of water and their hands in bowls of water.
Yuriy Obov and Pete Downings, the Overseers with me, were grinning so much and looking at the ground that I thought they would explode and that I thought would do nothing for the `professional' reputations of the new barbers.
It would have been useless to ask either Lev or Rurik what was going on because they only spoke only slave command-structure English and Arabic, apart from their native Russian, so I looked at the two Overseers.
`What's with the buckets and bowls of water?
`Boss, when the Overseer or the slave has been given a haircut and most of us have been getting a light rubdown with the depilatory cream again, they get their fingernails and toenails cut with clippers. The barbers insist that the nail is first softened.'
`You mean my slaves are being given a manicure.'
`Oh, no Boss, no way! It's just that it's easier to cut softened nails which have been toughened in most cases by farm or garden work.'
I raised an eyebrow and went back looking at the second slave who was getting his pubic hair trimmed and who now had some form of thin piece of wood placed across the top of his penis and lower groin area, covering the majority of his pubes.
`The wood covers exactly three and a half centimetres from the top of the cock, Boss. Anything outside that gets plucked with the tweezers and has the cream applied to it. You gave instructions it appears that everyone's pubes should be between three and four centimetres.'
`Yuriy Obov, are you trying to make fun at my expense?'
Yuriy, who has a great sense of humour, was hard pressed, I could see, not to laugh out loud, but dropping his shorts showed a perfectly trimmed set of pubes. My personal liking for depilation and the hairstyles for the slaves do not amount to obsession but is, I must admit, something of a fetish.
Then I noticed a computer monitor to the side of the room with a green screensaver floating around the screen. It was a green Aloe leaf. I knew where that had come from. The green from Abdul, my mentally handicapped slave who loves the colour and the screensaver itself from Jens Johanssen, my computer genius. It was another TITO.
I stood looking at the progress being made on the two slaves. The first now had had his finger and toenails clipped. The sheet was removed with a professional flick of Lev's wrist and the slave stood up and waited beside the chair.
The barber then went over to the screen monitor and tapped a key which brought up a display. He touched something on the screen and I could see his lips moving as he pronounced something to himself. He then came over to the slave who had just been given his hair cut, and gave a mangled Russian pronunciation of another slave's name. Obviously the slave understood, because he looked at me and went on his knees and made an obéisance, and then stood waiting to be dismissed. I nodded dismissal not knowing what had gone on.
It was Pete Downings who filled me in.
`Boss, the slave we saw sitting outside the door is the next one for his haircut. The slave who has just finished goes and gets the next candidate who then waits outside the door. These two barbers have it organised.'
They had indeed. Looking at Yuriy, I said to him as he spoke Russian and the two barbers still spoke nothing else, `tell the two of them that I am pleased with their work and that each evening from now on, the slaves, not Overseers or Supervisors, who have had their hair cut should be in the courtyard for inspection by me before dinner.'
Yuriy did the translation, and the two barbers smiled broadly.
`And tell them again for me, they have to learn both English and Arabic as quickly as possible.'
When Yuriy had done this, Lev who appeared to be the leader of the two said something and I realised that it was a very mangled version of `thank you, Master'.
`Boss, he says they are getting an hour of learning both languages each day.'
`I think they need every hour at their language classes and more.'
While I insisted that the responsibility for each slave's personal hygiene and grooming was the slave's own, I also heard on the Palace grapevine that nobody, but nobody, ever missed his appointment at the barbers' shop.
Well, after all, success sells itself.
End of Chapter 2
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The Dahran Sands is the eighth novel in the Dahran series.
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