This is the third chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and present-day slavery.
Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, sex, submission
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The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this series] are now available as full novels in Adobe Acrobat format on http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/
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Chapter 3 -- Optimism
One of the little rewards I had introduced for my slaves was that those who came top of fitness programmes, which my gym Supervisor called PBs' or Personal Bests', would get a day off at a beach property I had on the coast. I love seeing that my slaves are fit and healthy, and I have invested a lot of time and money in their care and welfare - substantially, more per slave than most other Dahran owners, if the facts I have heard are true.
That care and investment extends from a proper daily diet, two hours of daily exercise routines, a minimum of two hours of classes in languages or other matters such as sex techniques, eight hours of hard physical work, two bouts of sex per day, meal times, some hours rest in the evening and a full eight hours sleep at night.
While slaves love an ordered lifestyle where they know the clear wishes of their Master, they also love rising to a challenge and particularly one which will produce a substantial break in their routine. A happy slave is one who knows that he is part of a general scheme or programme. The slave is happy when he knows precisely what he must be doing at all times and at all hours for or on behalf of his Master. Overall, my programmes of a general or of a specific nature give the slaves that structure and security.
However, they know that if they get top marks in a series of training and fitness programmes, they get a day at the beach. The first time I had thought of this there was the question of security. There was, but the Police Captain for our area put me at my ease on that score. While a number of my slaves make excursions outside the Palace grounds such as Jess when he drives me around in the evenings to neighbours, the GPS settings for each slave are determined in advance.
Every slave has a GPS bracelet made of titanium on his ankle. Silver in colour, it is satellite-monitored to give a geodesic position to within a number of feet.
The Police Captain had told me that the settings can be as low and as restrictive as fifty square meters which is all of twenty feet by twenty five feet or thereabouts, or they can be set to their maximum limits which are the borders of the Sheikdom, but which automatically exclude a number of areas such as the airport and part of the docks where no slaves are ever permitted entry for any reason.
After taking some advice in the matter, I had all my slaves' settings set to the Palace limits and I let them know that very clearly. However, the Police Captain explained that for an individual slave's settings or those of a group of slaves to be changed, it required no more than an amendment to the data on their computer systems -- all of which was capable of being done with a doubly encrypted secure programme change on our Palace systems which then transmitted by mobile phone to the Dahran Homeland Security computers.
The Police Captain had handed me a small floppy disk with the comment `This is the programme that the slave centres use, Sir Jonathan, when they have to deliver and collect slaves all round the Sheikdom. Total security is never more than a mobile phone call away! Update the settings you want each day, each week, whenever; connect your drive your phone and it is uploaded in less than a minute. Totally secure.'
Now, a group of twenty or so slaves had returned from the beach and were stepping out of their red or white bathing slips and handing them to one of the laundry slaves, more for rinsing out than for washing. The coloured bathing slips acted as identification for the beach matches or whatever else they engaged in on the seashore.
If the truth be told, the slaves looked equally handsome in the slips, which barely concealed their cooped-up genitals, as with the slips off where the full beauty of their overall tanned bodies was to be admired.
One of the slaves spotted me walking across the courtyard and I heard him say `The Master'. There was a quick shuffling and two lines of slaves formed as if they were on morning inspection.
The Supervisor who was with them on the day trip came over to me and said `Master, we have just returned from the beach,' stating the obvious. The unstated request was to come and take a look at his slaves. It would not be the case that they required inspection, but were I as Master to do it, the Supervisor's standing among the slaves would rise.
I did so and moved down the lines. I only really recognised two of the slaves. The others would be general field workers who had been training hard on their PBs. While they would now drop to the bottom of the list until they worked up some points again, it was clear that they were excited, just like children, at having been away from the routines of the Palace.
Having looked them up and down, I said for all to hear `Make sure you tell your buddies how much you enjoyed your day at the beach.'
`Yes, Master,' was the chorused reply.
`What did you like most? I said to an unknown slave in front of me as I played with one of his well-formed nipples.
`Just to swim in the sea, Master.'
`You can swim in the pools here every day, can't you?'
`Yes, indeed, Master. But the sea is different, isn't it, Master?'
The slave had a point I suppose and I left it at that.
One of the slaves half way down the line had a nice face and I told the Supervisor in charge to have them follow me over to one of the slave quarters.
`You are good slaves when you please me, your Master.'
I beckoned to the slave with the nice face to step forward, and pointing to a spot on the floor in front of me, I said ` On your knees.'
I unzipped my flies and told the slave, `Show me your of loyalty,' which he did by kissing in true Dahran fashion my now exposed penis which I then slipped into his warm mouth. I think the slave enjoyed sucking me off as much as I enjoyed being sucked. He had a good technique and as he used his mouth and tongue well, I complimented him.
It had been a hard day at the office and soon I felt my sap rise and my cock strengthen and harden. Twice I must have hit the back of the slave's throat as he gagged a little but went on with his sucking mission with vigour. In less than two minutes, I knew I had passed the point of no return and my cock spasmed in the mouth of the slave who swallowed my three ejaculations without spilling a drop of my semen. The slave then licked me clean and put my deflated cock back inside my pants and zipped me up.
This is a slave who knows how to please his Master in a very simple way,' I said to the grinning slaves, as I gave my fellator a slap on the backside and sent him back to the line of slaves. Now get ready for the evening meal.'
`Yes, Master. Thank you, Master, for taking time with us,' the Supervisor said.
I must try to remember more of the slave Supervisors' names. Those in the kofilas of the al-Kadir property tend to be a blur.
However, the thought of the beach stayed in my mind. And more than that, the thought of the burned-out shell of the beach house which occupied the high ground overlooking the property's cove and beach.
Over dinner that evening, I put it to my nephew-by-marriage, David Tuttle, who stays at the Palace with me and is a project manager with Annan and Annan, the Dahran architects, that he should now design me a new beach house.
He looked surprised and a bit downcast at the suggestion.
`Jonathan, I am up to my eyes at work and there are two major projects to bring in. You know the one in the port. It is hellishly difficult, and it alone is taking up most of my time to bring it in before the due date.'
I smiled in half-sympathy because David's yearly bonus comes from bringing in projects before their due date. Projects delivered late give him only his salary and headaches.
We have a young Egyptian architect in the office on loan from the Cairo office. I can ask him if you wish. But much as I regret having to say no' to doing it myself, I simply can't, Jonathan.'
`Okay, have this young whatever he is make an appointment with reception at the Bank and I'll brief him. Who will get the fees?'
`The firm, of course.'
`I'll offer him a private bonus to get it done quickly.'
`He'll do that anyway, Uncle Jonathan, once he hears it is for you. It will be quite a feather in his cap when it goes on his résumé. I'll tell Qusay to make an appointment. His name is Qusay al-Rafi and he graduated first in his class last year.'
`So, he's going to experiment on my building.'
`Stop it, Jonathan. He is a very good architect and he is also very handsome. So you will enjoy having him work for you.'
`What are you saying that I only employ handsome people?'
`You said that not I!' he countered with a smile.
I left it at that. Some arguments you cannot win and you are an utter fool if you try.
On those days when I do not go into the Bank and work from home, I have the habit of leaving my study door open. Well, that is not quite true. I ordered that all inside doors on the ground floor of the Lemon Palace be left open during the day to help keep cool air circulating. If the full truth be told, I quite enjoy listening to Kent Kialka, the slave-pianist, practicing as he does farther along the ground floor in the large salon.
Practice seems too poor a word for it. He seems only to play full pieces from the music books and the sheet music I bought for him. I discovered that he could sight-read most music, much as I would read a Bank report or novel. What he has to do each week is to memorise a piece to be played for me and my guests each following Saturday evening.
The classical music seemed to have a calming effect on all those who worked in the Palace. All seemed to work more quietly and I saw that frequently slaves passing by often have a smile on their faces as if in tune internally with the music.
The music itself is like that very distant background music which you hear from time to time, pleasant and soothing but neither obtrusive nor in your face.
On one occasion during the week, I had allowed myself to wander down the corridor to the salon as Kent was practising. He was engrossed in sight-reading some Beethoven passage, sitting there in his white chiton with its gold braid cincture.
I also noticed a glass and a pitcher of Bob Conrad's famous lime-juice on a small table beside the concert grand and what looked like a small empty ice-cream bowl.
I didn't disturb the scene or the music and wandered back towards my study. By chance, Bob was coming out of the kitchens.
`Bob, would you have any lime-juice left over? I'm quite thirsty.'
Bob looked at me and then down the corridor and then back at me.
`Yes, Boss, immediately.'
When some minutes later, he came into the study with a silver platter and a jug of the lime-juice on it, I could not resist saying, `What? Is there no ice-cream for me?'
`No, Boss, not until dinnertime,' and quite amazingly looked me straight in the eye without any fear.
`But for Kent, yes?'
`He's Canadian, Boss. We, Canadian slaves, have got to stick together. I gave him something for his elevenses as he doesn't have to take English classes.'
There was a challenge in the statement. My perennial pessimist wasn't bowing to fear of my authority.
`For his elevenses? Even I don't get elevenses!'
`Boss, you're never around at eleven. You know that. I did it on the authority you have invested in me as your maître d'hôtel' and he drew himself up to his full height and I could have sworn that he was clenching his buttocks.
`Bob, of course, you did and rightly so. You do not have to explain your actions to me or to anyone in this Palace. Come here,' I said beckoning him over to the desk.
`Closer. Down. Closer.'
He bent down over the desk towards me, and I kissed him lightly on the forehead.
`You don't have to explain anything to anyone. Understood? I trust you and I love you. You know that.'
Boss, thank you,' he whispered in a very small voice, and you know I love you and only want to serve you as best I can.'
`Which also includes giving Kent lime-juice and ice-cream?'
`Yes, Boss, because it makes him happy and it will help him play better for you.'
`Bob, I do think you are beginning to stop worrying and are becoming an optimist.'
`Some hope, Boss, some hope!'
The month of March saw me go on my own to London for the regular meeting of the board on the third Monday of the month. Georgie Deckam, my newest junior partner in Dahra was still just feeling his way round the branch and Colin Bowman, the other junior, was up to his eyes with a Korean bond placement which is always tricky at the best of times. Both said that they would video-conference in on the board meeting and that was fine with me.
I took the New Concorde up from Bahrain and absorbed the various one-page pre-meeting reports from the branches of the Bank from around the world. I had not had time to peruse all of the reports to come in before leaving as I would normally have done, even studying them on the way to the airport in the Rolls as I tend to do. So with the help of three cups of bitter black coffee, I waded and waded through them until over France and with a side glance at the French Alps, I was finished.
The board meeting was uneventful. Afterwards, I had a word with Charlie Deckam to assure him that Georgie was settling in fine and that I had a stern word with him on his duties and responsibilities. I said no more than that.
But had I transported Charlie Deckam to the Negev desert and Mount Sinai to offer him the Ten Commandments, he could not have been more pleased and, for the first time in ages, I thought I saw that glint in his eye which make a Deckam a Deckam.
At my usual Hotel off the Strand, there was some post waiting me. The Zeta Club membership was to be renewed and there was a `thank you' note from my friend the treasurer to say that the five new overseas memberships for foreigners for the year had all been taken up. This was a suggestion I had previously made to secure extra yearly income at no extra cost. There was a hint of an invitation to lunch which I declined. The Zeta Club's dining room still has menus from prior to the Boer War which are best avoided if a week's chronic indigestion is not to be suffered.
There was a card from Ryan Smith in a white envelope with the single word `Dinner?' The question mark held promise. That suited me down to the ground and I rang my former agency escort and now executive partner in an electrical business to agree a time and place.
He mentioned an old restaurant under new management now called `Squabbles' or some such name. I jotted down the address and agreed a time for seven o'clock which would be ten on Dahran time, and late enough at that.
My taxi driver knew of the restaurant and as luck would have it, traffic was light, so I actually arrived first at the restaurant, which as far as décor went, was subdued in greys and pinks, with soft deep double linen tablecloths.
I was helping myself to an Amontillado Fino by way of an apéritif when a couple arrived. I did not pay any attention to them and was glancing at the menu which the waiter had left when a voice said `Jonathan.'
I looked up in surprise and Ryan Smith was standing there with a woman at his side.
`Ryan, I didn't see you come in. I was so engrossed in the menu,' I said getting up and extending him my hand.
He shook it firmly and as he did I felt his middle finger tickle the palm of my hand in silent and private recognition.
`Jonathan, this is my wife, Emily. I said I was going to have dinner with my new business partner and she said she would love to meet you. I hope you don't mind.'
`Mind? Not at all, Ryan. Emily, Jonathan Martin, delighted to meet you. Please let us all sit down.'
It was only then that I saw the table had been set for three. Ryan sat beside me to the right and Emily opposite. From the beginning of the meal to its end, I felt the pressure of Ryan's leg either on my calf or pressing against my knee.
Both waiter and wine-waiter were in religious attendance and we were able to order quickly. I ordered some water and a bottle of the Sancerre for the white and a decent Fleury for the red.
While some dinners with strangers, or at least with those whom you do not know too well, can be tedious, the dinner with Ryan and Emily Smith did not drag at all. The only near accident was when Emily asked how I had heard of `Ryan's new firm' and being economical with the truth, I skated over that particular patch of thin ice saying how bankers and venture capitalists always have their ears to the ground for new opportunities.
The explanation, or half a one that it was, sufficed and I looked sideways at Ryan and was struck by his confidence which was well matched to a sober well-fitting light grey mohair suit he was wearing.
`You haven't told, Jonathan, the good news,' Emily prompted at one point. We had been on first names since sitting down.
`Good news?' I echoed.
`Very good news, in fact, Jonathan. My old firm had been surprised to see me go, but the directors there are two very decent guys. I think I mentioned to you how busy I had been with them. Well, they asked me take over two new contracts we had tendered for. I had actually prepared the tenders. My old firm has more work that it can handle and has just gotten the contract for the re-wiring of four old warehouse buildings down at Canary Wharf. The clients were more than happy to see me take over the contracts as they already know me.'
`What do the new contracts entail?'
`Nothing that I couldn't do in my sleep and as the contracts are for all of a year and a half, I want to bring in some young and hungry staff to do the leg work.'
`You mean to say you'll be the Boss and others will do the work,' I said laughing.
Ryan's leg was pressing my calf something terrible. I had a hard-on to end all hard-ons. There is something frighteningly awful in not being able to do anything in public places about hard-ons.
`Not quite, Jonathan. A couple of good Supervisors, five or six junior installers, with me as a double project manager.'
You're assuming that no other further work will come in for a year. But good news spreads fast, Ryan, let me tell you. So be prepared' as the boy scouts say for other work.'
`You think so?'
`I know so. Nothing succeeds like success be it in banking or in electrical installation. Just one thing to keep the air clear. Do not run out of money. For every employee you have, ensure you have never less than ten thousand in the Bank.'
Ryan spluttered into a glass of water he was sipping.
`Ten thousand, surely not, Jonathan. I have done some sums.'
`Ryan, listen to me. Cash is king. When you have it, you sleep at night and so do your bankers. The one thing a new business must never give a sign of not having enough of is cash. Let me know what you want when you want it. Now enough of business. Let's enjoy the meal.'
`Didn't I tell you he was a great partner, Emily?' Ryan said to his wife.
`How is your son, Ryan? You said he was sick the last time we spoke.'
Some things are best got out of the way quickly and illness is one of them.
Ryan looked at Emily who said, `He has had two operations and most likely he will have another one in some months' time. It's all about tests and how the holes in his heart have stayed sealed after the two operations. He's a very gutsy kid.'
`Easy to see the parents is where he gets it from.'
`It was touch and go money-wise for a while but with these new contracts and if Ryan can make a decent salary from the firm, it should be alright.'
`Emily, I trust and hope that all will go well with your family. You are very lucky to have a child. Very lucky let me tell you. It's only when a family does not have a child that heartbreak is truly felt.'
`You sound like you're talking from some experience,' Ryan commented looking at me strangely.
`In fact, I am. A very good and long-standing friend of mine has a son who is not married and by the looks of it, will not be getting married.'
`You mean the son's gay?' Ryan's wife said quite directly and abruptly.
`Emily, what a thing to say!' Ryan spluttered.
Well, I don't know,' I said truthfully. Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe bisexual. At the end of the day, I simply don't know. The only thing is that he does not date girls which sort of rules out the prospect of marriage on the horizon. And that is what is breaking my friend's heart.'
`Why doesn't your friend's son not just get a woman to bear him a child? The woman drops out of the picture suitably compensated. He could rear it, or if not the grandfather could.'
`Emily, you are outrageous!' her husband said.
`Ryan, you don't read the women's novels I do. Modern world and all of that!'
`I don't think my friend's son would even have considered that - not even remotely.'
`Is he handsome? Is he rich?'
`Emily!' Ryan interjected again.
I could not he help but laugh.
`Yes, he is handsome. He is even dark as they say in novels. He's not tall. But two out of three is not bad, I would say. And he is rich which helps the cause!'
What a dinner conversation!' Ryan said with a laugh. Does the poor guy even know what is in store for him? You'll have him impregnating women and he doesn't even know it.'
I looked at Ryan and then I looked at Emily.
`How difficult would it be then for a nice English girl to marry a nice English lad who is rich, dark and handsome? To have her own home to run? To bring up preferably two sons by a husband who would be that in name and in law, but not by nature and leave her to have her own life?'
Ryan looked at me.
`You are not serious, Jonathan?'
`It's Emily who put the thought into my head!'
Women do bear men's children, you know this surrogate thing and all of that,' she said. Do you know that one in twenty five children in the country is not the child of the husband? I don't mean of a previous marriage or relationship. Simply one in twenty five husbands do not know at all that their wife has had an affair.'
`This would be sort of different. It would be a question of bringing up the child or the children, of having a nice home and a grandfather who would dote on the child or children, and a father who most likely would not.'
`Jonathan, please,' Ryan said and I felt more pressure on my knee.
`It would be possible, Jonathan. Everything is possible in this world if you put your mind to it,' Emily said.
`Emily, you are impossible,' Ryan replied to his wife.
I was quiet a moment.
`Ryan, I think Emily has a very good point.'
I was going to expostulate further, when the wine waiter came by and I ordered a further bottle of the red.
There was relative silence at the table as we finished off the course and the desert menu was presented which we all declined.
A trolley of liqueurs was rolled up and we ordered three Cointreau on ice.
`Emily, I work in the Middle East. I am only here usually for a little over a day every month on the third Monday.'
`Yes, Ryan mentioned that.'
`Would you like to accept a commission from me?'
`Being?'
`To find an Englishwoman, who would marry a dark, rich and handsome English stranger, who would like to bear a child, a son, no, let us say two sons, to have her own home and be taken care of financially of the rest of her life. A woman who would be accommodating in the education of her children, my friend's son's children, so that when the time came they would be ready to take their place as young gentlemen of the world.'
`Jonathan, at times, you do surprise me,' Ryan said.
Jonathan, more than a commission, I accept the challenge. I will find you the woman your friend needs for his son,' Emily said. But also remember that this way any child or children will grow up without a father. Also, would the woman be able to have an affair, or even divorce Georgie after a suitable period of time?'
At the look of shock on Ryan Smith's face, I could but smile and said `I think, Ryan, you were not expecting such a turn of affairs at what was to be nothing more than a quiet dinner.'
Ryan was lost for words.
Emily was smiling.
I dared not think of what Georgie Deckam's face would look like when I broached the subject with him in the fullness of time and dared even less to think of what he would say. If I had my way, for his father's and my good friend's sake, I would not let him say much on the matter.
End of Chapter 3
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Contact:
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The Dahran series -- a fictional adventure story about the life and times of Sir Jonathan Martin -- comprises the following novels to date:
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The Changed Life
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The Reluctant Retrainer
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The Market Offer
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The Special Memories
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The Dahran Way
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The Dahran Rebuttals
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The Seventh Desert
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The Dahran Sands
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The Time Line
These novels are all serialised on Nifty (Gay -- Authoritarian) and on YahooGroups http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories