These are the twenty first and second chapters -- the last chapters - of this part three of a trilogy of novels of gay sex.
Keywords:
authority, control, slavery, punishment, re-training, submission, loyalty
This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its characters are copyright and private to and reserved by the author. No reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.
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Contact points:
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The Market Offer by Gerry Taylor
Chapter 21 -- The Ambassadors
At my meeting of EU ambassadors at the German Embassy late in December in Dahra, due to continuing pressure from them to take more prisoners off their hands, I made those present at the meeting a firm offer that silenced them.
It was almost a year since the first meeting with the Ambassador, when I made the call to Sir Graham at the embassy and requested a meeting with him and his other ambassadorial colleagues to update them on matters pertaining to the prisoner-slaves and to make them my firm and permanent market offer.
It was the German ambassador who obliged this time and, apart from some superb wines, the setting could have been the same.
`Ambassadors, just a brief verbal update. All prisoner-slaves have now settled in well and in good health. They are working quite happily on my farms. I asked them recently if anyone wished to return whence they came. Not one volunteered to return.'
`Therefore the good news is that with the completion of the Lime Palace, I am now in a position to take two hundred and twenty more prisoner-slaves on the same conditions.'
That news silenced the lunch.
`Two hundred and twenty, you say' the German ambassador said.
Yes, on the same conditions, same price. This is what you might call a firm market offer.' I am not sure that Europe can provide this number of slaves of this type. So I am actually thinking of talking to some friends in America where I am reliably informed the problem is worse, particularly on the fabricated evidence aspect of things.'
This was a white lie, but who were they to know. The knowledge that I had, that not a single prisoner-slave wanted to return to their original prisons, left me assured that my system, warts and all, sexual initiations and all, was a damn sight better and more humane than their former solitary or quasi-solitary confinements for life under 24/7 surveillance cameras.
No, Sir Jonathan, that would not be a good idea,' the Danish Ambassador replied. While we have sent you the first batches of what you might call experimental or test cases, principally of miscarriage of justice type trials, let me assure you that our combined countries can supply two hundred and more other cases, especially, if when we include cases where there is a prisoner release scheme in operation at the pleasure of the respective monarch or Minister of Justice. That is to say when the prisoner will be in jail for the rest of his life.'
I agree entirely with my colleague,' Sir Graham said, not a good idea at all to speak to anyone else, particularly not our American cousins at this stage.'
There were nods of agreement all around the table as these facts were salted away.
My offer was quite simple and on the lines of the previous agreements. The prisoners would have to be male, under 35 years of age, not have been imprisoned for violence, free of communicable disease and not mentally ill, and I would be paid a once off fee of one million euro.
Over the following months never fewer than fifteen arrived per month until the two twenty figure was reached in late November.
Hassan, the Arabic teacher, had given no further trouble and one of the new arrivals - one of the so-called gifts - had a thing about Africans. Hassan had been born in Mogadishu and was darker in colour than the average Arab. Pavel was immediately attracted to him and asked to be assigned to Hassan as a buddy.
This slave Pavel, a Russian, was as fair as Hassan was dark, with a small but exceeding thick cock when erect, and both were into rough stuff in bed.
While I have never gone in for biting of any parts of the anatomy and most certainly not of penis or testicles, or of pressure points on nerve centres or on the throat, their groans in bed each night of this pair were something else according to those in their section.
After the mutual `buddying' of Hassan and Pavel there was not a whimper out of either as to their work in the Palace. Which to me simply proved that it takes all sorts to make a world work.
Andy was now teaching English flat-out full-time. A schedule of classes had been set up to run right through the day, much the same with Hassan for Arabic.
Andy had also settled in well, it must be admitted. Thor, the young Swede, who was assigned to working with Dr. Cuesta, the eye doctor, worshipped the ground Andy McTee walked on and was assigned to him as a buddy.
After just three nights of sleeping together, only sleeping that is - without anything happening -- Thor always being well self-lubricated back there just in case anything did happen -- Andy finally put his arms round the young Swede and whispered in his half sleepy ear, `I love you.'
It was as if a floodgate had opened. Thor was all over him and he, over Thor. Those on pallets on either side of them stopped their own accustomed dalliances to see a fresh love being born. Andy, not knowing really what to do or having the experience how to do it, merely lay back and let an uninhibited Thor straddled his midriff and sat down on Andy's more than ample cock, successfully sliding it inside him after three partial attempts.
After that night, Andy's performance as a teacher, if good before, became nothing short of stellar. His fear of touching a pupil disappeared and he patted the good on the back, rubbed the stubbled hair of the bewildered, tapped on the shoulders of those who were tiring in class, and smiled the smile of happiness of one who is truly loved by another.
We were poised to enter into the new year, Yuriy and his teams of slaves had re-fertilised acre after acre of the lands of the Aloe Palace, and Dumi was slowly but surely doing similarly at the Lime Palace. The original fields of the Aloe had been used for growing crops and vegetables in the past but never with modern methods of farm growing. Each month, the chessboard of acres extended lush green patch by lush green patch. The Lime Palace grounds were much more difficult, but much more rewarding to cultivate.
The walks and gardens around the Lime Palace, now cared for by Jon Lundt, the latest of the Swedish slaves to have arrived, and an increasing number of small fountains contributed immensely to the enjoyment of the evening strolls, with recesses in the vegetation for those who merely wished to be in the arms of their lovers. The fountains were a clever delight, as three different heights of water from around a rim would converge in a centre point, creating haloes of light, and cascading droplets of water in the air.
At Stan's suggestion, silent windmills were now installed every three hundred feet around the perimeter and would supply more than enough wind energy, while up on the Lime Palace, the burnished copper and crystals of solar panels on the entire Palace roof glinted in the hot Dahran sun from early morning on providing natural energy.
A reservoir for ten thousand cubic meters of water was built on one of the higher portions of the land of the Aloe Palace, which would supply the entire property of two thousand acres with water for four days under the pressure of gravity alone.
It is amazing what doors money can open and how quickly services can be provided when the amount is ready cash.
Chapter 22 -- Success at last
It was around this time that inside myself, I realised just how contented I had become with the way of life in Dahra and the hand of life cards that the Fates had dealt me.
I realised also that I too was just as content and more so with whatever hand, Clotho, the Fate, who spins the thread of life, might have to spin me in the future. But now for that mere passing moment, I was content both with my lover and with my life.
It was in December of that year, that I received a call from the slave-dealer in al-Qatim, saying that he had a slave that he thought might be of interest to me. Nothing more. I had thought that it was a bit strange that he had not sent round the tan folder of the auction house, which would have detailed with ample photographs every angle, contour and orifice of the slave, together with a prior and present history. No, simply, that perhaps I might drop when I had the time. My curiosity was piqued, and that afternoon I had the Bank driver run me down the coast road to al-Qatim after the workload of the day was done.
It was obviously to be a private viewing, as there were few cars outside the auction rooms, and although I had said I would have been along, I had not quite specified the time.
The slave dealer was attending to an Arab lady intent on getting a domestic female slave and when he saw me arrive he passed her over to one of his assistants.
`Sir Jonathan, what a pleasure! How good of you to make the time to visit our humble auction rooms.'
That slave dealer is always customer-friendly if anything.
`The slave in question is being exercised at the moment, but I shall have him brought through to the private viewing rooms.'
I said there was no need that I would walk down to the exercise area with which I was familiar and we walked down together. I noticed that the whole premises had been recently painted and refurbished so, the slave trade must be doing well for him.
We walked through the double doors of the exercise area, and I tell no lie, my heart skipped a beat. Pounding away on a treadmill at a nice easy loping pace was a tallish, lanky, rangy, long legged, well muscled blond to streaky fair-haired beauty. His upper body could have come off the front page of any glossy magazine on men's health and fitness. His legs could have come directly off any of the statues of an Italian museum of sculpture. His butt, and I always had thought up to that moment, that Rolf Hanzer my gym master, if not Bob Conrad, my Canadian slave, had the most perfect butts of all my slaves, but no, leaving both my slaves' rear anatomies standing, this guy's butt had stolen his off Praxiteles' own Hermes.
The assistant who was monitoring the runner's progress saw us arrive and switched off the treadmill, and the slave got down. His cock and balls had been like sheets in the wind, but now two perfectly shaped tangerine sized balls rested between his legs and a cut eight inch chunk, there was no other way to describe it, of the perfect human male sex organ was lounging, not even resting over his balls, as it hung insouciantly down between his legs, gripped as it was by a perfect bush of wet blond hair which formed his pubes.
`What are you looking at, mate?' he said at my stare, because staring at him I was.
The slave was not only blond and beautiful, he was Australian! It is a long time since I have been called mate' by anyone, but had I stood there all evening, he could have mated' for as long as he liked.
The slave dealer was going to say something, but didn't and merely handed me the tan folder of one Roge (short for Roger) Harte, Aussie rules football player, albeit on one of the very minor teams. If my heart had skipped a beat on coming into the exercise area, now it slipped down an entire flight of stairs.
I felt my head was light. I read each line of the four-page report. Each sentence burned its way into my memory. The alpha-Australian was standing before us with his hands carelessly poised on each of his hips, index fingers pointed at his genitals as if to say What?', Just try me', I am macho', I am male' or even an arrogant `Don't fuck with me!'
I got to the section where it gave his vital statistics and pointed with the finger to the section on his anal virginity, which was ticked `Yes. Definitely'.
I said in Arabic to the slave dealer, who saw where my finger was `Has the doctor confirmed that?'
`There was no need for the doctor, Master, it took three of my assistants all of fifteen minutes to get the slave in position to check that out and photograph him. You could beat a drumstick on his arse hole and it would sound like a desert drum.'
`How long has he been here?'
`Just a week, Sir Jonathan, we are trying to train him in the basics as quickly as possible. He will fetch a high price, if you are not interested, Sir Jonathan.'
If looks could wither, the slave-dealer would have died on the vine like a crinkled leaf in winter. I was, of course, interested!
I went over to the slave and said, `What is your name?'
I knew it already but wanted to hear him speak again.
`And who the fuck are you, mate?'
I could feel the slave dealer bristling at my side, but chose to ignore him.
`My name is Jonathan Martin, and I am thinking of buying you as my slave.'
I let that sink in for a second.
`Bugger that, mate, I'm nobody's slave.'
`And again, what is your name, my friend?'
`Roge Harte. And you're a pommie.'
`Yes, Roge Harte, I am English. Besides football what do you do?'
`Bugger all. What else is a guy to do, mate? I play. I fuck the sheilas. I drink beer. What's more important than that?'
The perspiration from his run was covering his torso. I would have loved to have run my hands over his chest and abs -- definitely a four pack and with proper training a potentially good six pack -- but he was too untrained for anything like that to happen just yet.
`I think, Roge, that I shall see you again.'
`You take care of yourself, mate, and I'll take care of me' he said.
If only he knew just how little he would be able to take care of himself in Dahra or influence his own future if left in the auction rooms of al-Qatim.
I tried not to let my enthusiasm show. But the slave-dealer could sense a sale, like a shark could sense blood at a mile or a mosquito an unprotected patch of skin at a picnic. We turned and went out of the exercise area.
On the way back to the slave-dealer's office, Roge Harte's file had not left my hand for an instant.
`For the untrained and insolent Australian slave?' I asked.
No need to let the dealer think of putting too high a price, but he did nonetheless asking for forty five thousand euro.
He hedged. We haggled as one is expected to do, like two fishwives in a market. When he said, `but for such a perfect bottom, such perfect legs, a torso which is ripe for development,' I knew he had me and he knew it too, and Roge Harte was dispatched at 37,500 euro, and worth every eurocent of it! Little did he know that had he asked the double I would have paid it in the folly of my desire.
I thought of bringing back the new slave to the Lime Palace that evening, but it would have been a question of putting him in restraints in the boot of the limousine and there are two practices to which I have never taken, that of putting slaves in the boots of cars and that of paying for them by credit card. If we don't keep up our standards, where on earth will we be?
While slaves are slaves and for the service and pleasure of the Master, I do not personally believe that they should be reduced to the level of mere luggage, but in that I know I am in a minority.
The matter was solved quite easily. The Arab lady ahead of me on the way in had bought herself a female slave and was having hers delivered there and then to her home on the west side of the city. The slave-dealer made out an extra delivery docket for my new slave and that was that.
I was home almost an hour before the new arrival was delivered. I told Komil that he was to take charge of a new slave but not to have the slave's body shaved, only given a hair-cut, and that I wanted him and Rolf, the gym Master to devise a new training programme for the slave who was too fat around the side of his belly, and I pinched an inch of Komil's stomach muscles and said that he had to be give a six pack as quickly as possible, just like Komil. Well, that is not exactly fair, I think Komil, being so tall actually has the makings of an eight pack.
When the transit van arrived, I also had Bob on hand to assist Komil, if necessary, but Roge Harte just stood there blinking in the evening sunlight after the dark of the inside of the van, and he was to be led away to be shorn of his almost shoulder-length hair.
Roge's training at the Lime Palace, it was more training than breaking in, took all of two months and is the stuff of another story, but one which I will tell.
`Bob, look after your charge,' I said and he and Komil led the Australian away.
What I did come to realise as a result of the investigations which Josh Green was continuously at this stage carrying out for me on the former backgrounds of the slaves at both the Aloe Palace, now so well run by my head of household there, the Australian Pete Downing, and at the Lime Palace, with Aziz al-Aziz, was that now over half of my slaves had nowhere, no physical place to go to call home.
In time, my investigators would look into each of their family backgrounds or rather lack of them, so I know these things to be fact. My foundation, the Buddy Foundation in Grand Cayman, has also set up, of these first batches of slaves, more than fifty of their old families and relations in more secure family and business situations. But I still found it almost impossible to believe that no families existed for some half of them. It was if trouble had been lurking around the corner for those who had no one to call their own.
Maybe their not having a family to go back to in half the cases explains why not a single slave has ever tried to run away from the Palace. It does not quite explain about the other half though, whom I think, when all is said and done wanted security in a plain, simple, stress-free life, some companionship, with a little bit of respect, the minimum of space, some sex and the contentment of knowing that they were wanted.
These topics I have examined more in detail and laid out in the second part of my diaries, as my nephew Jack requested me to do after he had been at branch of the Bank for some months. He had found a diary one day in the marketplace in the capital city and said, `Now Uncle Jonathan, that is what you should do! Write down the interesting things that have happened to you.' And so it was to be.
After these initial experiences over the first two years or so of my life in Dahra, I have continued to write down, in my following diaries, what I have called The Special Memories of those years.
The Lime Palace now is truly a home, not just to myself and to Jack Tuttle -- my nephew and protégé - but to my staff, to overseers and slaves, where we are a family of sorts, buddies and friends, and where I, Sir Jonathan Martin, Englishman, banker and partner at Deckams, and narrator of a fortunate life, am at your service.
Dahra
December 200X
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May I take this opportunity of thanking readers for the many kind and encouraging eMails I have received during the on-line publication of the trilogy of The Changed Life, The Reluctant Retrainer and The Market Offer. It has given me great pleasure to publish and to know that some parts of the story have had a resonance around the world and have been read with enjoyment.
Gerry Taylor
Contact points:
e. gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com
w. http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Erotic_Gay_Stories
A new trilogy is under way and a start on its on-line publishing will begin in November 2003.
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