The Time Line by Gerry Taylor
This is the thirteenth chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and present-day slavery. Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, sex, submission If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage now.
============= 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/ ===========
Chapter 13--Arrivism
Nesim Murat had asked to keep his anal virginity until I, as Master, could take it. I respected that request and when his training in the compounds was over, he had come out of his weeks of training with a back passage which could have been technically described as anus intactus et involatus and that would have summed him up quite nicely.
Because of his special request, I made his first night with me special and told Ben and Gianni to arrange it as they had once done for me.
That night when Nesim had presented himself at my bedroom suite, I was already in a white towelled bathrobe and my attendant slave slipped a second robe on to him. I took his hand and I walked up the stairs with him to the rooftop. Here more than a hundred lit candles surrounded a four-poster bed whose side canopies held fine muslin in place in the evening breeze. Had we wanted to eat, we could have partaken of sweet marzipan from the coast or crystallised sugared dates from the Dahran foothills, but Nesim was so nervous that he declined my invitation, as he stood amazed at the beauty of the setting, itself in a setting of the reds and purples of the Dahran dusk.
The roof was quiet solitude. In the distance, there was the murmuring hum of cars on the Western Road. On the horizon, the sun had disappeared and its final, reluctantly dying, rays were now making reddish orange and purple streaks on the faraway desert skyline.
I lay on the bed and patted the spot beside me where I wanted Nesim. He stepped out of his robe and the beauty of his small body, glinting from a hundred candles, was breathtaking from the smoothness of his skin which had been lightly touched up with Aloe sap, to his dark eyes, soft and alluring, silently offering up to me his body and the encased soul inside it.
I let my fingers run over his skin as touch is one of the great sexual allures. His body trembled instinctively and I brought his hand over to touch my body as well. We explored each others bodies languorously and at our ease and leisure. But eventually every marvellous voyage of exploration has its end.
As Nesim was superbly fit, I had no hesitation in raising up his legs up over his torso and putting each of his arms beside each of his bent knees. In that way, his buttocks were split wide like an overripe peach with its puckered kernel at its centre moistly awaiting deflowering.
My erection spoke its own language and finding the most private of my slave's orifices there waiting for it, I positioned myself with the tip of my erection touching his tightness and pressed in, and farther in, and farther in.
His tightness was incredible. I had never quite felt any such vicelike grip on my penis before. I pulled back and out slightly, and in a single coup de grâce impaled his rectum with my penis. His sphincter muscles could not grasp the penetrating penis as his anus had been salved with Aloe cream and in the cavern of his body, I felt the heat of his innards, and set up the motion for the breaking in of my latest Turkish slave.
That night I took him three times before we dropped off to sleep. Nesim did not come until I had taken him a second time on his hands and knees, and he covered the quilt on the bed with thick streaks of cum.
I was astonished that twenty minutes later, he was hard again, and it was my turn to astonish him, when I lay on my belly and indicated what I wanted. This was the first time I had ever volunteered my most private orifice to anyone, slave or free. The one who had taken my anal virginity had paid the price on a water-wheel. All of this would be unknown to Nesim as he positioned himself gently behind and over me. His entrance was slow, measured and paced. The touch of his penis against my skin was soft, and he eased himself into me.
Five minutes later, he was spasmming inside me and his breath was hot on my neck and his little cries of joy and relief and uninhibited sex washed over the side walls of the rooftop.
When his involuntary penile and muscular contractions had subsided, he rolled off me, and I turned on my side to look at him. Language in these situations is a lost cause and more so with Nesim and his lack of a common one with me to any level of linguistic proficiency. So I did what I had seen Yuriy Obov do a number of times when speaking of a former lover, I crossed my first and second fingers and pointed them to Nesim's chest and then to mine.
He smiled and understood, and then surprisingly, he took my two still intertwined fingers and raising his upper thigh, placed my hand firmly up between his legs at the back of his balls.
No clearer statement could be made of his subservience to me and to my sexual wishes. In appreciation of his offer and statement, I took him once more, this time as he had taken me, on his belly with his arms and legs stretched wide, and two pillows under his hips to give me the perfect angle for his anal penetration.
After that, I know I fell asleep because I woke with the dawn under the bedclothes where I had not gone of my own recollection and there was Nesim's arm across my stomach, a half-smile of utter contentment and relaxation on his sleeping face.
I let the pinks and salmons of the July dawn herald in the arrival of a trained slave into my household. Like so many things shown to us by nature, Nesim did not see the dawn greeting laid out for him and slept until I finally untangled myself, and in so doing, alerted him to his new station in life. Like the well-trained slave he was, he prostrated himself before me on the rooftop.
Come, Nesim,' I said as I indicated to him to get up, I have a new day ahead of me and you have a new life ahead of you.'
He did not understand me, but the look on his face and a gesture of his hand on his heart and then towards the bed and the wider rooftop spoke of loyalty and love and gratitude that I had taken his virginity, privately and quietly, and in such a unique manner.
I knew there and then that Nesim Murat and I would get on very well.
Ben Trant, my secretary, notified me of the arrival of a further new slave. When I heard his name, I did not, in fact, want to see this slave at all now that he had arrived. In fact, I wanted to have nothing to do with him and refused to read the tan file until he had been processed and gone through each of the compounds.
Put that file away, Ben,' I said to my secretary, and just let me know when he has completed his training in the fifth compound.'
`Is there something I should know, Master? I need to know things if I am to serve you properly.'
`I'll tell you in five or six weeks time, Ben. You serve me very well and you know that.'
`Yes, Master.'
Ben Trant really does love the inside track of things, that extra bit of information which no one else knows, thriving on the marrow of power which he gets in my direct and daily service.
The slave I did not want to see was the exact opposite to Nesim, my latest Turkish slave. The new arrival was an upstart, an opportunist, in a word a cocky, conceited, impertinent and arrogant individual who when thoroughly trained would serve me long and hard. But I had other things on my plate that day, and I put the latest arrival to my Palace out of my mind.
When love is absent, nothing works so well as fear. This was clearly borne out when the time came to inspect the impertinent slave who had just completed his five weeks training in the compounds.
The procedures at the end of training are quite simple. If both Supervisors agree, the slave is brought to the barbers, then on to the medical team for a final check-up and then the slave is brought to me, or more specifically, I am informed that the slave is ready for inspection normally in the fifth compound or in the slave quarters where he awaits my pleasure and any disposition I may have to give.
I gave a sole instruction as to how the slave was to be prepared and went back to my paperwork for an hour. Georgi Gridov was giving me a report on the new al-Kadir plantings and I enjoyed his overall grasp of the project coupled with his attention to detail where he made each slave sweat until the minutiae were all attended to.
What I particularly like about Georgi was the natural ease with which he attributed success to others. It was always what Graham had suggested or Dieter Schaffer, his number two, had done, or the two Turkish Supervisors, Berk or Zeki, or one of the others. He filled an hour with his report as if it were but minutes, recollecting this or recounting that about the work achieved.
`Come, Georgi, I have to inspect a new slave,' and I walked over to the slave quarters with my arm over his shoulder for all who wanted to see how my little Georgian slave enjoyed my confidence.
The slave was standing `at display' in the centre of the quarters with a blindfold around his eyes as I had instructed. I nodded at Mirzan who had been sitting to one side and who now got up at our approach.
`Check out this new slave, Georgi,' I said in English so that the slave would know of our arrival.
Georgi went over and ran his hands over the slave's musculature. I walked round the slave in a wide circle, as Georgi took down one arm and then the other from behind the slave's neck, then bent and flexed each of them.
I saw him put his hand in the centre of the slave's back and bend him over. As the slave had his legs wide apart, Georgi gently eased him down until his torso was almost but not quite parallel to the ground.
I stood beside Georgi as he sniffed the slave's butt.
`He is healthy, Master. He is not sick.'
How Georgi knows this by smell is beyond me, but he has never been wrong so far and I am not complaining.
`How does he take cock?' I asked Mirzan.
`Well, Master, he did require some focussing and he had never been broken before. But now, he accepts being fucked very well.'
I ran my hand over the slave's shoulder to feel his musculature. His skin was dry and warm, and exuding heat, even in the cool of day. Some slight residual welts were to be seen on his backside from a previous camel-cane beating, but there had been nothing totally severe.
`What do you think, Georgi?'
Georgi was standing to the front of the slave and he put his hand on the slave's arm and pulled down until the head was at his shorter level. I saw him whisper something to the slave who nodded and then nodded again.
`Master, he is your most obedient slave and he will work hard for you.'
I smiled to myself at Georgi's procedure.
`Do you think we should put some rings on his tits and on his nose so that he can be controlled more when he is being fucked.'
Not really, Master, he is not strong enough to resist the bigger slaves,' Mirzan replied, and if he is your most obedient slave, the only thing any of your Supervisors will have to do is to tell him to be ready to be fucked.'
I thought I saw the slave shake.
`Take the blindfold off the slave,' I said and walked around to face him.
The slave was blinking in the light and then his eyes focussed.
`Remember me,' I said and I raised my middle finger before his eyes.
Mikey Acton took one look at my face and at my upraised finger, opened his mouth, his eyes having rolled back in his head, he fainted at my feet.
Mirzan sprang over to catch him but too late, and I said `let him recover on his own,' as he lay in a relaxed bundle on the ground.
Georgi was looking at me as his most recent clean bill of health lay on the ground and for the first time in my ownership of him said something that bordered on a joke.
`Master, you really must watch your sign language,' and he held up his middle finger.
I pulled up a seat and sat down to await the recovery of the slave. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Mustafa ben-Mustafa had Mikey Acton lifted five days following my previous departure from London. He was in Dahra three days later and now some six weeks later he was lying at my feet.
The slave was beginning to recover his senses and was getting to his knees. He took a furtive look at me and stayed on his knees with his eyes downcast.
Master?' Georgi said in query looking at me. What am I missing? You know this slave?'
`Not really,' I said and put my hand under the slave's chin and raised it so that my newest slave was looking directly into my eyes.
`Hello, Mikey. Have you anything to say?'
`Sir, I am sorry. I am very, very sorry. Please let me go,' he said as tears started to come down his cheeks.
`I accept your apology, Mikey. I sincerely do. I think you have learned an important lesson that every action causes an equal and opposite reaction. But as for letting you go, that is not possible. You have seen the video, haven't you, as part of your training?'
He swallowed and nodded and snot dribbled from his nose. I pointed at a piece of towelling close to Mirzan who handed it to me, and I wiped Mikey's face and nose.
`For the rest of your life, Mikey, you are my slave and are going to work for me, or more specifically for Overseer Georgi here,' and looking at Georgi, I filled him in.
`Mikey Acton here, Georgi, tried to rob me in London.'
`He attacked you, Master,' Georgi said indignantly drawing himself up to his full short height.
`He was caught. He did not hurt me.'
`Master, I have the very rock duty that such a slave needs.'
Georgi, he's all yours. Report to me in a month,' and looking at Mirzan, I said Well done, Mirzan, a nicely submissive slave! You should have seen his arrogance previously. Well done!'
Having authority and not using it is an offence to the laws of society. In Dahran society, where the Master is the authority, an aura of respect which can be tinged with either love or fear or a combination of both is best found in every household if that household is to survive and prosper.
In time, not just in a month, Mikey Acton would find that my authority was to be the abiding rule of every waking moment of his life from now on.
Five times, once each month from April onwards I had met with Qusay al-Rafi, the junior architect from the Annan and Annan office whom David Tuttle had recommended.
He was Egyptian and without fear of contradiction, I can state that he was beautiful. David had not lied nor had he made any mistake. He was also sexually straight as a die and like many people who are brilliant in a particular area, very shy when venturing outside it.
On architecture and related matters, he could talk until he had to be stopped. On other matters, conversation had to be maintained as he sat on its fringes. Each month, he would come to me at the Bank for the two hot hours after lunch when Bank business would always be at its lowest ebb, and first he received my ideas and then having implemented them, with a few modifications of his own, he started suggesting improvements not just to my ideas, but to the basic design and concept of what originally had been a widow's beach house before I had purchased it.
I think he was afraid of me and I mentioned that to David one evening at dinner.
`Afraid is not the word, Jonathan, he is in awe of you and petrified that something will go wrong and you'll report him to one of the partners. But at the same time, he is one of the most brilliant people in the office. Brilliance is something I recognise when I see it. Has he made any suggestions to you?'
`Yes, he has.'
`There I told him to. He has good ideas.'
So it was August by the time that the beach house was structurally ready and I brought Pete Downings down with me to it so that he could have it decorated for me.
It is strange how a simple beach house can take five months to re-build--it had been badly burned in a fire and my re-building of it was that plus an extension of some of the rooms. I had it fit out essentially for one person, myself.
Pete took one look at the ground floor of the beach house and merely said `Boss, what do you want?'
`Surprise me, Pete. Surprise me.'
He looked across at Qusay al-Rafi who had joined us there and said, `Well, we had better get started.'
A couple of weeks later when I visited the beach house again with its ski-jump-like roof and its off-white walls, I was stunned with the simplicity of the décor, the furnishing of each room seemed just suited for it, and blended in with the overall modern tone which seemed to rise in the air like a gull on the sea breeze.
Ben, my secretary, keeps telling me that a slave should always know the mind of his Master. For Ben, when he refers to himself in this way, it means that he wants to serve me better. In Pete's case, it is being able to read me in matters of taste and in being able to supply the answers.
Ben also has a point in that the Master has to be consistent; nothing upsets slaves more than unwarranted and unannounced changes. After a number of months of their lives being filled practically from morning till night with matters to be done for the Master, slaves need a firm and continuous routine to be happy, At the Palaces, these routines include sports to keep fit and trim of body, languages and other classes to be keen of mind, to say nothing of the sex techniques classes which are always booked out or even visits to the barbers' shop or to the beach if obtaining a number of personal bests. It is indeed a matter of being consistent.
I, as their Master, am happy to oblige. So, in my Palaces routine rules, slaves are content and the Master is happy.
One of the things I most enjoy as a Master is entertaining. Not entertaining on a lavish or sumptuous scale but having friends and neighbours in for an evening's meal or conversation, and now with Kent Kialka, as resident concert pianist, for musical evenings when the guest list warrants it.
In this, a surprising help came from a surprising source. Jake Peoples is the Mercury, that is to say the messenger, for the Lemon Palace--there to run with a message for either myself or one of the Overseers to whatever part of the properties and farms is required. Not only is he an extraordinarily beautiful young man, now a darker golden tan than when he first arrived due to his frequent outside runs in the Dahran sun, but he has a genuinely nice and friendly disposition, to say nothing of some sexual techniques with his tongue which are beyond price.
Jake had come one day with a message from Yuriy Obov, my Stables Overseer, and as I was deciding what message to send back about a new area of planting, I noticed in my diary for the day that I was expecting three of my neighbours for dinner that evening and also I was awaiting the arrival of an English guest who had been at the Palace on a number of occasions. I was trying to remember what their likes and dislikes were and I must have murmured something to that effect under my breath about the pending arrivals, when Jake said, `All of that, Master, will be in the guests' register, will it not?'
`What guests' register?' I said.
Seeing that I did not know what he was talking about, Jake replied `Surely, Master, the Palace has a guests' register of what the previous guests like and don't like.'
I looked at him and thought of the tizzy Pete Downings had been in when the Palace's first female guest, Khalila bint Omar, had arrived.
`Are you saying, Jake, that your former Master kept a register of his guests?'
`Not my former Master. The Head of my Master's household. Everything was recorded in the most minute detail. Nothing was left to chance. Ever!'
`Ben!'
My secretary came running.
`Do we have a guests' register?'
`A what, Master?'
`A guests' register. We have Sir Alan Young coming this evening. Do we know what type of soap he likes?'
`Master, I do not know what you are talking about. Yes, I put Sir Alan's arrival in the diary when his note came to you last month. I have informed Pete Downings so that a suite can be prepared for Sir Alan. But soap? Register?'
Ben was looking from me to Jake and back again.
`Ben, from now on I want a register kept of every single detail about our guests. What they like. What they don't; which suites they have occupied. Have Jens design you a programme.'
`Yes, Master, and for that, Master, may I humbly ask for some help as Gianni and I would not have the amount of time needed to compile all these details.'
I looked at Jake, who looked at me and grinned.
`Are you up to that, Jake?'
`Master, I would have to learn about computers. I know nothing about them.'
`Good, have a word with Jens, and get it under way. And tell Yuriy to do as he suggests.'
`Yes, Master.'
I looked at the marvellous buns of Jake Peoples as he departed.
`Some backside, eh, Ben?'
Yes, Master,' Ben said following my glance. Pity he has to sit on it. But if I can say so, Master, it's not as good as Gianni's.'
And I noticed the smile as he said it.
Such a simple concept. The creation and compilation of a guest register, if I say so myself, was one of my better decisions in the scheme of things, as it eased everyone's life. Flavio's life as a record of the menus served. Bob's as a record of who sat where and which food and wines were preferred. Pete's for the suites allocated. The list went on and on, and the Guests' Register became a living handbook of `Who's who' at the Palaces.
One of the things about being authoritarian is that no one raises an eyebrow when you act in character, least of all a slave. Many of my slaves consistently stay in a single relationship year after year. Some have the same partner since the day I acquired them and first assigned them a partner.
A buddy or partner is all-important in a slave's life in my Palaces as the slave knows that he is not on his own, that he has someone with whom to communicate on a daily basis. Even if that communication is limited to an obligatory jack-off morning and evening, if the two do not have actual sex. However, the interaction between buddies is much more than that. At times, it is a sharing of work, or a similarity of work, or working in tandem. It may be just sitting beside the buddy at meal-times or sharing the warmth of a buddy in a bed at night. But it is sharing at its most basic level.
Other slaves never really settle into a long-term relationship and invariably once a month those who are without partners are assigned buddies for the following month.
End of Chapter 13 =========== Contact: e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/ w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories If not on the YahooGroups mailing list, simply send a blank email to Erotic_gay_stories-subscribe@yahoogroups.com 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