Dahran

The Time Line by Gerry Taylor

This is the eight 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 8 -- Dogmatism

I was very surprised to see such a turnout at the service in the chapel of Rhode House, the school where Caroline had taught and had been Deputy Head. It was very redbrick in the establishment sense and I smiled to myself at how much the Sugar Plum Fairy must have changed to conform to such strictures and starch. The chapel was beautifully bedecked in white roses and there had to have been over two hundred in the congregation including some, who from their ages, I guessed were pupils or past-pupils, and others, easily identifiable as staff in their gowns.

The school chaplain was polished in his performance and led us through chapter, verse and hymn. The organ soared, voices rose, silence descended. An elderly man in his late sixties got up and spoke for some ten minutes of a Caroline that I did not know, the dedicated teacher of biology, the reliable administrator, a marvellous deputy headmistress, a friend always there in his and the entire school's need. The kind words rolled out and they rolled true, and while they opened with condolences to her son Richard and her sisters, they concluded again with a reference to Richard, of whom the school and his late mother was so proud, making reference to a first in economics at Surrey and now further studies being undertaken in London.

I looked sideways at Richard in the seat. He had not mentioned the distinction in his studies. His eyes were fixed ahead, a little glazed. His hand was on the pew seat next to mine and I felt his fingers touch mine at the last mention of Caroline's name.

As the service concluded, before the coffin was taken out to the hearse, all were reminded that Caroline wanted everyone who attended the service to go for lunch at the nearby hotel and that Richard and his father expected it also.

That was the first reference to me, as Richard's dad and out of my peripheral vision, I could see heads jerk up.

At the church door, Richard stood and asked me to stand beside him. Caroline had asked to be cremated privately without anyone of the family being there. It was unusual, but her request was honoured and the hearse drew away on its own.

With various comments to those near to us of See you at the hotel', we were among the first to leave the church grounds in the car and this allowed all and sundry to follow. In this way, at the hotel, Richard was able to stand at the entrance to the dining-room with me by his side and welcome all with a handshake and a smile, and looking white but composed, introduced me each time as My father, Jonathan Martin'.

The only break in that ritual was for Richard to introduce me to Caroline's two cold and sanguine sisters, who did not look like Caroline at all, and to a niece and his happy looking nephew whom he almost tossed in the air, to the child's great glee.

I found myself seated between Richard and the headmaster who turned out to be quite likeable, easy to converse with, and relaxed on range of topics.

He appeared to have had a truly genuine regard for Caroline, and more than once said to me that he would sorely miss her. He was courteous enough to avoid the topic of how Caroline and I had met and or presumably separated. In that, he was both considerate and respectful of her memory.

It all reminded me of a previous meal at my old school after many years of absence.

`Do you have a building programme at the school, headmaster?'

It is the one thing that most schools of any size will have.

`Yes, indeed, Jonathan, we have just completed a language laboratory and we are going to tackle the building of a new library as soon as funds allow.'

I listened intently, and looked sideways at Richard talking to one of his aunts.

`Do you have a ball-park figure for the library?'

Oh, my dear Jonathan,' - we had been on first name terms since the soup - it's early days yet. But the school architects who did the lab for us said the library would cost at least five or six million if it is to be both modern and blend in with the rest of the school buildings.'

Headmaster, let me make the school a gift of the library on two conditions. One that it is called the Caroline Black Library' and two that in the entrance there are two sculptures, both in full size, one of Caroline and the other of Tchaikovsky's Sugar Plum Fairy. I'm sure you will be able to find a good sculptor. I shall have a Bank draft sent to you tomorrow for let's say seven million and an agreement. Anything you have left over put it towards some books.'

He looked at me a moment and said quietly, `You must have loved her dearly.'

`When I look at Richard, headmaster, I know I loved her very much once upon a time.'

I don't think he caught my full meaning.

`And about the library, headmaster, no announcements or anything, just get on with it, and when it is completed, just let me know. As I say, I'll send a confirming note to you tomorrow with the Bank draft.'

The headmaster, where it mattered, was a man of few words, for he just looked at me and nodded in understanding.

I wanted to stay some further days after the Monday, but Richard would have none of it. He said that he had a number of things to do, and two papers to get in for his Masters. He then surprised me by saying that he was going to put the house on the market.

`Already? You don't want to wait a while?' I countered.

No, dad. One of the guests at the lunch was the family solicitor who said everything has been left to me in mum's will. All very cut and dried,' he commented. `I think I might like to get a place with a view down in Canary Wharf which would be near everything.'

I merely nodded acquiescence.

`Let me know if I can help or if you need anything.'

`Can I see you in May when you are back? I'll have the two papers out of the way by then and I'll have been able to think more clearly.'

We were sitting side by side in the kitchen-cum-conservatory which seemed to be our spot for chats.

`Dad, I'm glad you're here,' and he leaned sideways and put his head on my shoulder and an arm over my chest.

`I'm glad I'm here as well.'

The board meeting at Deckams was uneventful. Gustav was there from Frankfurt and cautiously suggested an improved situation. Tommy Elford gave solid news from Tokyo. Dorothy Lemming, the New York partner, sketched a picture of burgeoning markets. The world was not quite at military peace, but banking was firm and profitable.

Throughout the meeting Georgie Deckam looked quite pale. Our esteemed Chairman, his father, commented on that afterwards to me at the lunch.

`Nothing to worry about, Charlie, I am working him hard, nothing more and he has a load on his mind that he has to get rid of soon. Don't worry.'

I did not expand on the load that his son was due to get rid of, as it referred more correctly in the physiological sense to his upcoming sperm-deposit visit to Harley Street that very afternoon.

While Georgie Deckam was assuring the future of the house of Deckam in Harley Street, I met with Ryan Smith who wanted to show me his business plan for his new electrical contracting venture. He had put me in by name as a shareholder and I changed that so that it read one of the nominee accounts at the Bank. There was no need to attract undue attention to my investment.

Looking at these figures, Ryan,' I said to him as he sat across from me at my hotel, you'll need more cash in about four to five months time.'

He started to explain how that would not be the case and all the why nots and wherefores.

`Ryan, you are assuming that everything will go well the first time round; that everyone will pay you on the due date; that everyone will be as good to you as you are going to be for them. Business is not like that. Even with the best of intentions with the clients, things can go wrong or be delayed at their end. You will need cash, as I say, and when you do, do not be either ashamed or too proud to ask for it.'

He nodded reluctantly.

`Nothing else, Ryan?'

`I want you to take me, Jonathan. I've had a hard-on since I walked in.'

I looked at him and at the pleading in his eyes. It had nothing to do with the business plan in hand. It had everything to do with power and its wielding.

`Strip, take a shower and lube up.'

I leaned back in the chair as he stood up and he shed his clothes. His boxers were tenting and once discarded the glinting purple head of his penis shone in the afternoon light in all its precum wetness.

I looked at him as he went into the bathroom, his beautiful buttocks swaying on top of his magnificent legs. Some people are just given a great body by nature and hard manual work keeps it in shape as was his case.

I undressed at my leisure and joined Ryan in the shower, handing him a sponge to do my back.

When I had fondled his cock and balls to the point where I risked his ejaculation, we stepped out of the shower and dried each other off. He knew where to find the K-Y from previous visits and putting one foot up on a stool in the bathroom put an ample amount of it on his right hand middle finger to lube himself well. As I finished drying myself, I saw him repeat the lubing twice more.

Ryan knew what he owed me and what he had promised me.

I put my hand over his shoulder as we walked into the bedroom.

`Are you comfortable with this?'

He swallowed and nodded at the same time, and went over to the side of the bed and knelt up on it, his head and shoulders touching the cover, his elbows and bum sticking up in the air.

I moved between his widely splayed knees and touching the smoothness of the cheeks of buttocks, he shivered slightly at my frottage. I let the side of my thumb run down his crack not touching the damp pinkness of his anus after its shower and lubrication.

He groaned as the nail of my thumb touched the taut skin tissue between his back-passage and his balls, all down his perineum. His balls were hanging nicely, but not too loosely in their dark pink scrotum. He groaned again both at the touch and at the anticipation of what was to come.

I was hard and slipping on a condom, I positioned the tip of my cock over his entrance and let him feel my hardness. I pushed the head of my cock just slightly against his pucker, and again a little deeper and deeper again. He was tight but not drum-tight and as the sphincter muscle recognised the intrusion as not being forced, it relaxed to let the intruder pass into the awaiting darkness.

At my fourth push, I felt the full attempted grasp of the ring of the sphincter muscle, but putting another dollop of lubricant on the condom, the muscles of his sphincter had nothing firm and dry to grasp against. And then I was in to the blind cavern beyond the protective ring of flesh and muscle.

I let Ryan feel my filling presence inside him. There was no haste, no rush. It was a time for mutual feelings and pleasure. I pulled out to the slightest of pop sounds and immediately pushed back in to the same depth and repeated this four or five times.

Then, as if some switch were thrown in the neurons controlling the muscles of the anus, the tight ring of muscle relaxed and I started a more vigorous ride - the first where I would break in this marvellous stud on all fours in front of me.

I could see the pleasure on Ryan's half-turned face on the duvet cover on the bed. His eyes were closed at some internal joy being felt with his breathing slightly heavy, but at the same time relaxed.

I had not really found my stride yet, but this was not about me. This fuck was about Ryan, his trust in me, his wish to please me either for some personal reason of me having helped him financially, or because he felt some deep need as to his own sexual requirements as I opened up a new door of experience in the world of love.

I had not found yet his prostate. That would come in due course. If it happened now it would help him be more relaxed for future fuckings. If it happened in the future, it would open a panorama of undreamed of pleasure for this young man.

I tried to shift my angle of entry trying to aim a little downwards each time I entered him.

There are two great things to consider when making love: that is if you wish in my experience to have staying power. For others, it may well be different. First, one should do financial calculations or the two times tables or some such thing. It takes your mind off your pleasure and does not allow you to go over the top and into orgasm too quickly. Secondly, one should think of the theory of sex, not of what you are doing. Let you body do what it does, but your mind should consider matters such as the erotic nature of licking ears or armpits; or whether it is more noble to suck a right tit before sucking a left tit; or whether nipping the skin of the throat or neck with the lips and the lightest use of teeth is more erotic than the scratching of nails down the skin of the back.

There are a hundred and one aspects of the theory of sex to consider which will distract the body as it thrusts away inside a willing partner.

Ryan Smith gave a distinctive jump and groan. He did not know what had happened. I did. I had found his prostate, or rather in angling the thrust of entry I had found his prostrate between eight and nine o'clock as fighter-pilots used say in war-time, and there is nothing so like war as a good bout of sex. There is contender and defender. There will be victor and vanquished. There will be fighter and fighter. There will be some part or parts of the defence that are weaker than other parts and can be breached more easily to secure submission.

I had found one of Ryan's weaknesses, a virgin prostate which had never before received the attention and adulation of a probing cock.

By now, it was not I who was thrusting into Ryan. It was Ryan who was thrusting back against me. Twice the bones of his hips jarred against my pelvis and pubic bones. His head had come up from the duvet and his fists were grasping its fabric.

I watched a rivulet of perspiration form over his coccyx and run drop by drop towards the small of his back. Ryan was in the throes of sexual pleasure.

Two squared is four. Three squared is nine. Four squared is sixteen.

Ryan was now not just gasping and groaning. He was grunting as his thrusts against my hardness. I could sense his moment of ecstasy approached and I knew from his reactions that either entering or withdrawing or both, my cock was touching that most sensitive of glands inside him.

Five squared is twenty five. Six squared is thirty six. Seven squared is forty nine.

Ryan did not have either the experience or technique to hold back the overflowing power of his approaching ecstasy and, like many an amateur in love-making, though a recent fee-charging professional in this area, he lay down in the approaching path of his personal tidal wave and let it wash over him.

He jerked and jerked again. His groans had become incomprehensible shouts of joy and pleasure and rapture all wrapped up into one. I felt him go into spasm beneath me again, and again and again. Enough of mathematics squared or otherwise. I dropped from the sphere of sexual theory, looked at the stud impaled on my cock and let the sap of my life rise and rise and rise. With one all-encompassing thrust, part of me was in Ryan Smith and part of his sexual pleasure was reciprocated into me.

I stayed inside Ryan as I deflated. There are those who stay hard after cumming. I am not to be listed among such fortunate ranks. I belong to the brigade which deflates, but which does not entirely retreat. Some have sex and have to be gone either to their own side of the bed or to the other side of town as fast as their legs will take them. It is as if there is a fear that the recipient of such a person's sexual attention might turn into some form of arachnid to devour its mate.

No, I deflated, little by little by little, until both blood pressure and the sexual thought of the moment dropped to a mere contact of bodies. I pulled myself out of Ryan and gave his rump a smack of my hand, as I flopped down on the bed beside him.

`Jonathan, what was that?' he gasped still not fully recovered in his breath from his first on-all-fours fucking.

`That Ryan, my lad, was sex. Nothing more, and most certainly, nothing less.'

In sex just as in some other aspects of life, it is good not to fall into any moderation. It is a question of giving it an `all or nothing' to ensure success. That may sound a bit dogmatic, but then a firmly held dogma or belief never hurt anyone as long as it is full of mutual respect and based on an all-embracing love.

Ryan Smith declined to stay for dinner.

`I have a date with two people I love,' was his most acceptable excuse.

`Take your papers with you,' I said indicating his business plan and other files.

`You don't need a copy?'

`Do I need a copy?'

He smiled, `No, Jonathan, you don't. I'll keep careful records for you.'

That in a way summarised Ryan Smith, a good and careful partner who had initially thought himself totally straight, but who had discovered that he did like to be dominated in his bisexuality by an authority figure.

My return to the Lemon Palace on Tuesday was as if I had been away a month instead of just a mere five days. I felt on my return that there was a genuine feeling of welcome back from both Overseers and slaves. The fact that I had to present some thirty two of the slaves with their gold necklaces brought back from Aspreys maybe had something to do with the good feeling in the courtyard that first evening. A line of slaves which had formed immediately after their evening meal to see me had disappeared by the time the last of the gold necklaces had been conferred on those who were thirty days out of training, or in the case of one slave, who was being given his back, after a case of re-training and attitude adjustment.

My junior partner at the Bank, Colin Bowman came to me with a problem which arises from time to time -- a double-booking. He was down for the following day to visit a client on the northside of the capital city who was looking for finance for a massive extension to his brick factory. We call such `site visits'. His site visit was clashing with a Korean banker who was in town at short notice and who wanted to talk bonds. As Colin Bowman is our bond man, there was no-contest. We needed somebody to do the site visit. Georgie Deckam, the only other possible, was also booked. So here was Colin in my office with a file on the brick factory.

`Jonathan, it's all in order -- all laid out. Five million over five years. LIBOR plus two percent. We will have a debenture on the full factory which is worth three times the loan. It's a quickie of a visit.'

On such occasions, you have to look suitably upset and discommoded, neither of which I was, but with a sigh, I said `leave the file. I'll bone up on it and do your site-visit tomorrow. You will pay up on the next embassy function.'

The following day was not one of my Bank days. In the morning, I had my slave chauffeur Jess Tollman called to my study.

`Jess, I need the Rolls in the courtyard at two to go to Dahra Brick and Tile on the northside. I have to be there at three.'

`Okay, Boss. No problem. Dahra Brick and Tile. I'll look it up on the city map.'

In his crisp grey uniform which was filled out perfectly with his admirable figure, Jess was opening the door of the Rolls for me on the dot of three in the portico of Dahra Brick and Tile. For no real reason, I had handed him the file I had been reviewing as I got into the limousine, and as we arrived on the premises I said to Jess `come with me. Hold on to that file, in case I need it.'

We went through the glass entrance doors towards reception which was a basic set-up for a manufacturing plant, and before I could introduce myself, the owner was out of an office to greet me.

There are a couple tips I always give junior staff about site-visits. Never just go where you are taken, always ask to see the staff locker-rooms and toilets as well. The condition of both tells you far more about a firm than any handout. However, you also have to undergo the visit to the main manufacturing area, be it of food or pallets, or as in this case bricks.

Maybe I had been lucky so far in Dahra that my site-visits had tended to be to white collar service industries, but nothing prepared me for the visit to the floor area of the two adjoining brick factories. Each was, I knew from the file, 500 feet long by 200 feet wide, with what might be called two long pieces of machinery down its length, where row after row of slaves were engaging in various aspects of the manufacturing process.

`We have eight hundred workers here, Sir Jonathan, and a further eight hundred in the other factory, with fifty Supervisors in each factory,' the owner commented.

I was too astonished to reply as I saw male and female slaves chained to their work benches, all of which seemed to feed into the long pieces of machinery. I say slaves since they were all naked.

What struck me forcibly was the silence. The machinery indeed was making some limited noise as machinery inevitably does. But the silence was breathtaking. Eight hundred slaves working in total silence.

Motes of dust were rising in the air towards a roof whose internal rafters were visible. The first ten feet of side wall had no windows and there was a two foot gap between the wall and the roof for ventilation.

As I was looking at all of this, there was a cry of pain from somewhere down one of the lines. I glanced at the owner who answered my unasked question.

`Where a worker falls behind, the worker is immediately punished to keep up production. We have a daily target for each worker and each section and each factory,' he elaborated.

`Punishment?'

`It is a simple electric shock which is delivered to the worker's spine or shoulders or genitals depending on which way the worker is facing. The Supervisor does not lose time by asking the worker to turn round. Here let me show you.'

Before I could say anything, the owner had taken what looked for all the world like a mobile phone from a Supervisor and touched it to the back of a slave who was working away at his position. The electric shock was sufficient to make the unsuspecting slave crumble to his knees and yell out in pain. All within hearing distance seemed to pick up the pace of production.

`Interesting,' I commented.

`It's a cheap but effective variation of the original American cattle prod which is now made in the Philippines.'

`Yes, it does seem to encourage the sl...the worker all right.'

I had noticed that the workers were indeed slaves and this was now confirmed by the titanium bracelet on the ankle of the worker who had received the electric shock.

`Seven in the morning to seven at night. Three fifteen minute breaks each day to eat, and if they have to relieve themselves, it is while they eat. The workers are then locked in their huts for the night until the following morning. They are allowed to rest a full twelve hours.'

The owner's patter seemed to go on and on. I realised that two things were bothering me. One was the frozen stare on Jess Tollman's face as he held the file beside me, his knuckles showing white through the tanned skin of his hands. The second was the smell of the working place. It smelled of sweat and excrement and human odours. But most of all it smelled of fear.

Thankfully, it had not been the owner's intention to bring me down the factory floor, but merely across the top of the production lines as we headed for a side door to bring us into the space between the two factories. I don't know how I coped with the overpowering smell as we passed different groups of workers: let alone what it must have been like in the centre of the factory.

As we approached the side door, my eyes were drawn to a slave who was quite literally hanging from the wall in an x shape, his hands and feet linked by small chains to four hooks.

`What is happening here?' I enquired.

`His production level this morning was the worst of all. He is punished every half an hour until production stops this evening,' and with that the owner put the electric prod to the slave's shoulder and the slave convulsed and fainted.

`I am sure your production methods do achieve their targets, but I would think that a dead worker will not produce very much for you,' I said with mild sarcasm to the owner.

`Most definitely, Sir Jonathan, but it is difficult to kill these workers with short bursts of electricity, and it works wonders on the production rates of all the others.'

What can I say other than the second factory was not better, perhaps even worse than the first one. Such production methods, I personally think are counter-productive, but that is just my opinion. However, the paperwork was in order and I told the owner that his loan was approved and could be drawn down when he liked. We signed the documents in his office off the reception area, and I left as soon as it was decently possible to say I had another appointment.

Jess had never left my side. I noticed that when we got out to the portico, he seemed to be breathing in and out very deeply, but no more than I, to rid lungs and body of the air of the Dahra Brick and Tile factory. He opened the door of the Rolls for me, handed me the file that he had been zealously guarding, and we drove off, heading back for the Lemon Palace.

I deliberately did not raise the partition between us nor enter into any conversation with Jess. I left that up to him. Normally, he will ask if I want to listen to music. He did not speak with his voice but with his eyes.

There is a spot on the back of the front seat of the car, which if you look at it, you can also see the driver's face or rather his eyes in the rear-view mirror. I spotted Jess looking back at me three or four times. I knew it would not be long, before he spoke, and I was right. He is one of the few slaves whom I put up with like Roge Harte and Bob Conrad who just blurt things out.

Finally, after about ten minutes driving, the question arrived.

`Boss, can I ask you a question?'

`Fire away.'

`Why, Boss? Why did you give him a loan? You saw how he treats his slaves.'

`The conditions for his loan were fine. He was entitled to the loan. As to how he treats his slaves, that is not for me to comment on. A Master as you know has complete power over his slaves.'

`But, Boss, the owner treated them....treated them as if they were less than animals. The female slaves were not even separated from the males. You could see that they had not been allowed wash in weeks. I could even see shit on their legs. They never see daylight except through those high windows....'

For once, Jess seemed to be out of words, but not for long.

`Boss, I never ever dreamed it could be that bad for a slave. Greg told me what it was like to be owned by his former owner Rashid, and that was bad, but today...'

`Jess, each Master is different and that is that. Now what about some Country and Western?'

`Yes, Boss, right away.'

Though the music played softly on the way back to the Palace, it was clear that the site-visit had a severe impact on Jess, and I noticed it again, if confirmation were needed, when alighting from the Rolls at the Palace. Having opened the back door for me, he took my hand and brought the back of it to his lips, saying `Boss, please don't ever sell any of us to places like that.'

I just patted him on the cheek and left him to garage the car.

End of Chapter 8

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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:

1. The Changed Life

2. The Reluctant Retrainer

3. The Market Offer

4. The Special Memories

5. The Dahran Way

6. The Dahran Rebuttals

7. The Seventh Desert

8. The Dahran Sands

9. The Time Line

These novels are all serialised on Nifty (Gay -- Authoritarian) and on YahooGroups http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories