The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor
This is the seventh chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and present-day slavery.
Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, sex, submission
This novel, The Dahran Sands, is the eighth novel in the Dahran series
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The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this series] are now available as full novels in Acrobat .pdf format on http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/
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Chapter 7 -- The frame of mind
Do not shoot the arrow which will return against you.
(Kurdish proverb)
Mirzan came to me at midday to tell me that the last of the Swedish slaves, bar the two problematic ones, had broken, each recognising that he was and would be forevermore a slave to his Master and that he was willing to obey Gustav, his Master, and to serve him in any and every way a slave should.
When Mirzan had asked what those ways were, each Swede had replied to him with the compound honoured formula, `You will tell me now, sir, and my Master will tell me when he wants to, sir.'
`Mirzan, did you apply the full compound-four techniques on each and everyone of these slaves?'
`No, Master, if I were to tell you the truth and nothing else, I have been taking it slowly and gently with these slaves. They are in sufficient shock that their Master has sent them to be trained. I have merely been trying with Vaz to keep that shock alive and before their eyes.
`One particular slave, Eric, had been going through the motions of what was ordered. I had given him a flogging and he had taken it, just as others had taken it. But when I saw that he had not put his heart into a run I had ordered him to do, I told him to raise his arms and with only the tip of the camel-cane, I started to flog his armpits. He started to move, and I told him not to. It was not a hard stroke of the cane, but he moved again and I told him that the punishment would start all over again.'
I was looking engrossed at Mirzan as he detailed the slave's punishment.
`Now, Master, I could not understand why this slave was reacting so physically. Then, it came to me in a flash, he had been educated in Sweden where he had never known physical punishment. No one would ever have hit him before his initial slave training for doing wrong or even to correct him. It was not a question of force or heaviness of stroke; it was a question of the stroke itself. So, I told him he was going to receive another three strokes in each of his pits for moving and then on the soles of his feet and then on his cock head.'
And were you going to beat his cock head with a camel-cane?' I asked surprised, and did you punish him further?'
Mirzan looked taken aback.
`Master, we use the cock whips on a slave's genitals. Always. Believe me, I would never risk doing permanent damage to Master Gustav's property. Master Gustav has not told us whether he wishes the slaves trained for his personal service or for sale. Our job is to teach them again obedience and good behaviour. We would never do anything that diminishes their value.'
`Good, Mirzan. That is precisely what is expected of you. How did the slave react?'
The slave was crying, Master, as I gave him his last stroke in his armpits and then I told him to lie on the ground on his belly with the soles of his feet in the air and not to move a muscle. I delivered five reasonable strokes on each of the soles of his feet and I whispered to him You have never been beaten like this before, Eric, have you? This is only the start,' and I ordered him to get up and lie back over the table in the centre of the compound with his arms behind his head as if on display.
`The slave, Master, was shaking at this point and sobbing. He placed himself on the table with his arms out of the way. I ordered him to spread his legs and retract his foreskin behind the glans. I showed him the cock whip. I said that he was not to move away or his punishment would start all over again.
`I delivered one firm stroke on the tip of his cock, and the slave cried out loud and his leg muscles contracted. Then, Master, it happened. The slave visibly shook and instead of attempting to protect himself from the next stroke, he spread his legs further apart. His training before the auction many years ago had caught up with him again. He had accepted that as a slave he had to remain in any position ordered to assume, and take anything that was coming. But at the same time, he begged me not to punish him any further; that he would do his best; more than his best; not to hurt him again; that he would be a good slave to Master Gustav.'
`There was no need for further punishment training, Master. I told him to get up and I called over Vaz with all the slaves he was training and told my slave to repeat what he had said. He did. Then I told him to show them his armpits and the soles of his feet and again to repeat what he had said.'
`He did all this?'
`Yes, Master, immediately as ordered, and then one, then two of the other slaves went on their knees and repeated what the slave Eric had said. It was the beginning of the breaking of that group of slaves.'
In my way of thinking, there are two things which can paralyse us -- the cold and fear. Cold does not exist in Dahra, not as we know it in more northern climes. On many a night, a light blanket is too much, and with a warm slave on either side, or with a slave cushioned up against your feet, cold is not a factor, whether you are the Master or the slave in one of my Palaces.
The other thing which paralyses us all is fear, a vicious icy hand around heart or head or mind, freezing us in our ability to desire, to think or to act. Thankfully, fear and I have not met too often, and I do not wish to renew the acquaintanceship.
A revelation about one of my slaves was such a case of fear for me.
The investigative reports which Josh Green had done for me separately on each of the forty two invading mercenary slaves who had been given to me by the Sheikdom of Dahra were as usual very, very good. They are expensive, but at the end of the day what I always need is solid factual information. I am constantly in amazement of his sources and the accuracy of the reports. I do believe that factual information is essential in running any business. If I were a cynic sneering at the professionalism of the investigators I could say that I pay enough for them, but if the truth be told information is power, and power, unless you want it to wither, must be exercised just like the body's muscles.
Sometimes, however, one of Josh Green's reports is merely confirmatory rather than revelatory and such was one which caused me some serious concern.
With the secure placing of the forty one mercenary invaders in my opal mine in almost the centre of Dahra's seventh desert, I had sent down Greg Logan, one of my most trusted and talented Supervisors, to observe and report on the mine's management structures, essentially an industrial engineering project of time and motion, in two words a work study. Greg was a former Navy commando and knew a substantial amount about authority, men and their management.
As one of my first slaves, I had broken Greg with a simple act of impersonal rape, not physically violent, but rape none the less, and I had never had to repeat his rape or threaten anything close to it. It was as if he had then realised resistance to the irresistible and the immovable was futile, and he had surrendered to me. I did my utmost not to betray that surrender and his subsequent trust in me as his owner and Master.
Now, he sat opposite me giving his latest and most welcome weekly report.
Always serious in his approach to work, Greg Logan had recently taken an updated photo of every slave and had a full `at display' photo of each of the former mercenaries. They now looked quite different to the five original standard slave photos in each of their tan files which showed them in profile, face on, back, full body and anus, as were taken when they first arrived at the slave centre in Dahra.
Although Greg had taken only one full body photo of each, one photo, telling a thousand words, was enough. He had given the rolls of film for development to Donnie Timmins, the `official' photographer slave of the Palace who would wait for them at the helipad as Greg arrived each weekend.
The photographs told their own story. Each slave had clearly lost body fat and all were now deeply tanned. However, it was to each slave's eyes that my gaze was drawn. It was the not crow's feet at the side of each eye caused by squinting almost continuously in the sun that I had found myself doing on my visits to the opal mine that caught my attention. No, it was the acceptance of fate, the resignation, the lack of defiance in the eyes which struck me forcibly.
Each of the former mercenaries wore an ankle to ankle plastic covered chain of thin stainless steel links. I remember having asked how this dovetailed with the mine's policy of no metals being in contact with skin such as nipple, penis or scrotum rings due to burns which the sun would cause on heating the metal.
Zabian, the mine manager, had informed me that a clear liquid plastic also had been sprayed over each ankle cuff as indeed with the wrist cuffs that were on each slave. It effectively meant that each of the slaves could be quickly incapacitated by clicking the ankle and cuffs together and if necessary they could be hoisted into the air by any hook on the ankle chain itself.
I asked Greg if that had ever needed to be done to any of mercenary slaves.
`Only once, Boss, to one slave who was about to hit another slave. And that was all that was needed. The slave in question was bound hand and foot in seconds as each of the bracelets were clicked together. When the slave had calmed down enough to be safely approached by his Supervisor, he was simply made to kneel as he got, six strokes of a cane there and then at the bottom of the mine. It was quick and effective, Boss.'
Now, Greg Logan was in my study with forty one folders stacked neatly in front of him prepared for the task in hand of discussing the progress of each of the newly tasked slaves and former mercenaries.
Greg's photos lacked the more `professional' touch of those of the slave centres. They were however more interesting, as each of the slaves was photographed either with a wall of the opal mine or some piece of machinery as a background. The other difference was that body hair was still a feature of the mine slaves, unlike the slaves of my Palaces.
I had a neatly printed-out three pages of management suggestions taken from procedures he had seen at the opal mine as possibilities for implementation at my Palaces. These I would circulate to my senior Overseers and Supervisors for most likely implementation.
`How was the trip up?'
`Fast, trouble-free, Boss. Thank you for asking and for having the helicopter collect me. The week has sped by and has been productive.'
`Well, a promise is a promise, and your buddy Juan Luis looks forward to seeing you each weekend. How is he?'
Always delighted to see me, Boss; warm, caring. He loves his work on the solar panels. Really loves it. While Donnie was developing the photos and I was waiting for you to get back to the Palace, I spent two hours in bed with Juan Luis after a long shower after landing. Sex-wise, he just wishes to please me and is becoming very adept with his mouth and tongue. When I try to do anything, Boss, he just pushes me back and says Gregorio, let me do the work now. You have been working all week'. As I say, Boss, he is very attentive. He doubts himself a lot and is always putting himself down. I think that is what caused his depression the first time.'
I smiled to myself as I reflected on a very sad Spanish slave who had taken time to come out of his melancholy and become a valuable service engineer on the Palaces' and the outbuildings' solar panels.
What Greg had not mentioned, and probably preferred not to dwell upon, was that a factor to kick off Juan Luis' depression had been the trauma of enslavement itself. It was one of those instances where communication between Master and slave is subject to implicit taboos. When I had first embarked upon my slave-owning career, I had hardly ever ventured beneath the surface. Generally, conversations with my human possessions had been as I liked them, and I had never wondered why. Now, I was slowly developing a sense of the routine auto-censorship in a trained slave's mind.
`And how is your own work progressing, Greg?'
As I was speaking Marko, who helps my chef, Flavio, in the kitchens, came into the study, stood waiting for my attention. I glanced up at him, and he said, `Master, Flavio wants to know if you or Overseer Greg need anything. Bob is down in the gardens.'
It was mid-afternoon and the slaves were just returning to work after their midday break out of the burning heat of the Dahran sun. I looked at Greg and said `Some iced-tea perhaps, Greg? It's a bit early for beer.'
`A pitcher of cold water first, Boss, and then some iced-tea would be great.'
I nodded to Marko who departed in the direction of the kitchens.
We started to look at the various dossiers and Greg commented one by one on the various former mercenaries and how in his opinion they were performing and working at the opal mine.
My main concern here was not their work, but rather their security as this was my promise to the Courts of Dahra and I did not want to fall foul of any of the judges and particularly not of Judge Khalila bint Omar who was due to visit me at some stage. I felt it in my bones that she would raise the question of security with me, one way or another.
I liked Greg's approach to the task I had given him. His dossiers all started with a single page report, at times not even that, in a summary explanation of what he was commenting on and analysing. I found that it was a structured approach, one that had obviously been imparted early on to him in his Navy and commando training.
There was a series of worst' and best' jobs on which the slaves of the opal mine were deployed. All fresh meat', as newbies were unflatteringly described, was put on the heavier back-breaking work of excavating and moving earth disturbed in the search for the rough opals. The new meat' always worked in pairs, not physically chained to each other, but never to be out of the other's line of sight. In finding one, a Supervisor would thus automatically find the other.
Again, a sort of buddy system was in operation, though not of an always or overtly sexual nature. The mine Supervisors allow pairs who step forward together to work together.
I asked Greg, `was that not dangerous?'
`Dangerous how, Master? They choose a buddy whom they know will work. No one is going to choose a lazy buddy who will leave his half of the work undone, for the other to do. Also there is a type of buddy punishment scheme in operation. If one of a team of two is punished, the other is punished as well even if totally innocent of whatever the other has or has not done.'
Greg must have seen an upraised eyebrow or something on my face, because he continued his explanation by saying, `the mine Supervisors think that punishment is generally evened out that way. A slave would not get four strokes of a whip, but just two and the buddy two.'
`Whip?'
`The crop-whip, Boss. You know the one with the riding-crop handle with the thin ten inch leather attached. As you know, it bites without permanently injuring and most definitely at the bottom of the mine pit, where you cannot all the time wield a long cane or whip, it is most effective.'
`I thought I saw tasers there?'
`Not in the opencast itself, Boss, just at ground level. If a slave goes "postal" as they say, all the other slaves and Supervisors just pull back on the pit floor, and let the slave simmer down while reinforcements with the tasers are called. The slave is then told to go to the punishment frame with his buddy. The buddy has to attach his partner's wrists and ankles, and once he has strapped him to the frame, he is to take up position in the frame beside him. Nobody goes near them until they do. And they are punished accordingly. On page 35 of the report, you can see the list of punishments and the number of strokes, and so on. It is a very sophisticated and enlightened approach, Master.'
`Punishment as sophisticated and enlightened?'
`Yes, Master. If the slave steps out of line, he and the buddy are punished without any danger. No one else. The Supervisors don't endanger themselves by trying to subdue a slave. They let the slave simmer down and at the bottom of the pit. Without water for an hour, the heat is not something to be suffered for very long.'
`Without water?'
`The slaves at the opal mine are never ever denied water, Master. It is just too dangerously hot. They can stop to sip water at any time, with the one exception when they are cooling down after an incident. You don't take long drinks of water in that heat. Also, in the sun, without some form of head-gear whether keffiya or straw hat you will not last an hour without sunstroke or being seriously burned. And I mean seriously, Master. One of my recommendations on page 48 is for the Aloe sap which does not pass quality control here to be sent to the opal mine slaves.'
`What else have you analysed, Greg?'
`Zabian al-Kibbe has a very good JIT series of services working for him.'
`JIT?'
"Just-in-time production" techniques based on the automobile production industry - delivery of water, replacement tools, machinery parts, the surfacing of the rough opals.Surfacing' is what they call bringing the rough opals from the bottom of the mine to the grading building. It's the only time that the slave and his buddy are allowed to leave the mine pit during production time when they discover a rock with a rough opal in it. The slaves in question get a `cool' bonus as the slaves call it of a cold can of fruit juice each with their dinner chow that evening, and there is also the reward a Supervisor can give. Very effective, I can tell you, Master.'
`You make it sound very efficient, Greg.'
`Believe you me, Master, it is. Work ends at seven in the evening. Biscuits and water for half-an-hour and mixing with other slaves. Then lockdown two to a cell at half-seven until six the following morning, when they get up, shit, shower and shave with electric razors and have a breakfast biscuit. This is followed by five hours work, a break of an hour for sex if they want it and their lunch biscuit and water, and then six hours work until seven again. There are no days off.'
I had seen the sex at lunchtime bit on one inspection of the mine. Greg's description was putting flesh on the bones of my scant knowledge of the actual workings of the mine.
`What happens to the trustees, the Supervisors and the Overseers such as yourself?'
`The trustees, Master, are just trusted slaves and sleep with their buddies in the slave lockdown quarters. The Supervisors and Overseers such as myself are locked down by one of the mine managers.'
`You are locked down for the night?'
`Yes, Master. It is the rule for all slaves at the mine of whatever rank or status, no exceptions ever. I am also permitted to choose a comfort slave as a buddy for the week.'
`Does Juan Luis know about the comfort slave?'
`Yes, Master, he does. I told him myself that the comfort slave keeps me warm until I get back each week to him. I would never hurt Juan Luis, Master. Psychologically, he is fragile and I think still inclined to despair. I have to tell him how much he means to me, and I truly mean that. He does mean a lot to me. While a couple of nights I fuck the living daylights out of the comfort slave at the mine, he is nothing more than that, a warm body to be used. Well, if the truth be told, he is also a quiet hard-working Polish slave. I won't take that from him.'
`Leave the full reports here, Greg. I'll read them at my leisure and let you know if I have any queries. How doesow Juan Luis like to be pleasured?'
He loves a lot of tongue on his hole followed by some gentle penetration before the all-out ride of the Valkyries' as he calls it.'
Marko had come back in from the kitchens with the drinks we had ordered. I could only smile at Greg's honesty as Marko placed the iced teas on the table beside us and Greg's eyes fixed on the water condensation on the outside of his.
`Your health, Greg.'
`Cheers, Boss.'
Greg Logan's reports make for interesting bedtime reading. The playmate slave of that particular night was gently lowering himself on my erect cock, squeezing the penile tissue three times with the trained muscles of his anus, and then rising off the cock, to repeat the performance again for up to an hour as I completed my reading. It was good exercise for the slave and an erotic way for me to get through reading reports, of which I seemed to be doing more and more of late.
`The General Manager has introduced a midday sex break and it makes sense. Those who are active enough can have sex in the shade with a buddy. Not all do. When the work is done each evening, they are all given an enema to hose out any possibility of an opal having been put into their anus. It has never happened there in my time, but has happened in the past, or so I'm told. Although I have not seen the doctor there yet, he is supposed to come on a regular schedule for two days a month, unless called out on medical emergencies of which there have been none since I arrived.'
At one point during Greg's continued debriefing the following morning, Marko came by with a re-fill pitcher of iced-tea on a tray. As Marko put down the tray on a side table beside us, he seemed to freeze, his eyes flew wide open, and giving a half-strangled cry, he ran out of the study.
I looked at him as he dashed through the door quite amazed at his behaviour. This was followed by a crash from the kitchens as something metallic hit the floor. Indicating to Greg to stay put, I went out to the kitchens.
Marko was lying on the floor as were three saucepans indicating the source of the crash. Flavio was kneeling beside him, and looked up at me as I stood in the doorway.
`You okay, Boss?' Flavio said.
`Yes, I am. What's the matter with Marko?'
`He ran in saying you were in danger and then fainted, upending some pots as he hit the floor.'
`Get him over to the doctor, Flavio. Find out what's the matter.'
`Yes, Boss,' and Flavio indicated to two of his helpers to get Marko up, propping him up between them.
I went back to business.
Some time later, there was a knock on the study door and there was Flavio with a protective arm around Marko who continued to look very upset. It concerned me that he was, because when I first got him as a slave he did not speak for ages due to the trauma of his previous life. He is the most sensitive of slaves who had been sexually abused in both anus and throat and terrified into silence and complete passivity by a series of militants in the Balkans before he was enslaved.
`Boss, he would not let the doctor give him anything. He keeps saying you are in danger and insisted on coming back to warn you.'
I beckoned them in. Glanced over at Greg, who appeared equally puzzled as I.
Marko came across to me and threw his arms around me. He is the gentlest of creatures as slaves go, and even in bed with him, his gentle ministrations with that perfect mouth of his are the foundation of a night to be remembered.
Master,' he finally managed to say. Master, don't buy that slave. Please don't buy him.'
I was trying to think. I wasn't about to buy any slave. Then the penny dropped. Marko had seen the tan folders of the mercenary slaves now at the opal mine and, being tan folders similar to those of slaves at the slave markets, had presumed that I was about to, or had purchased them.
`Who, Marko? And why not?'
`The butcher, Master. Gjon Vlorju the butcher.'
He said it as if it explained all which it did not.
`A slave in one of these files?' I said indicated the by now scattered pile on the desk in front of us.
`Yes, Master. Please don't buy him. He will kill us all. He will kill you, Master.'
Marko's trembling tanned body banished any possibility of thought that what he was saying was anything but the full, total and unadorned truth as he knew it.
I brought Marko around the desk and sat him on a stool beside Greg. Even in distress, Marko Sqeppa was a beautiful slave with his dark good looks and curved buttocks.
`Greg, show Marko here the most recent photograph in each file.'
The sixth file was the one and again Marko became visibly distressed even when Flavio himself put another arm around his naked shoulders.
`Master, that's him. Please don't buy Gjon Vlorju.'
The name was not the one in the folder. I looked at Greg who began to study its details with greater attention. It was the original dossier. Even after the discovery of the false identities of over twenty of the slaves among the original forty two, the changes to this file were minimal.
`Marko, I am not going to buy him now or ever. But tell me about this slave.'
In this statement, I was economical with the truth for Marko's sake at that moment. The slave was already my slave and secure in the opal mine production facility eighty miles to the south of us.
`Master, he was a captain of one of the militias and he killed all the people in Vlorju, his own village. His name is the same as his village. And he killed many others in another village. They called him the Butcher of Vlorju. Master, he will kill you.'
I thought that it was best to trust Marko with the facts and so I did.
`Marko, he is far away. He is in chains. He will never get out of a mine I own and if he does, he will die in a desert that no one can walk across such is the heat. He will not harm me or you or anyone else.'
Marko had his arms around Flavio's waist at this point. I nodded to Flavio and he took the still trembling Marko out of the study.
I looked at Greg Logan and he at me.
`This Vlorju slave needs further investigation.'
`He most certainly does, Boss.'
`Let's finish these reports, Greg, and later on I will dictate a letter to have a deeper investigation carried out.'
Josh Green would have a new name to research, I thought, wondering what his informants would unearth about the Butcher of Vlorju.
The mercenary slaves at the opal mine had to be just that -- slaves in my service not projectiles that could come back to injure me or mine in any way.
End of Chapter 7
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