Dahran

This is the eight chapter ex twenty two of a novel about slavery and gay sex.

Keywords: authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, re-training, submission, gay, sex

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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e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/ w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Erotic_Gay_Stories

The Special Memories by Gerry Taylor

Chapter 8 - The Australian -- Day 15

'Boss, Bob says I'm not supposed to ask questions.'

'Roge, I think Bob may have said, slaves are not supposed to ask questions, not just specifically you. Did he not?'

It was just as I was about to have breakfast and I knew that Roge -- for the moment a partly trained slave with his very own idiosyncrasies -- was standing before me on the veranda, his lean body glinting in the morning sun.

`I gather that you have a question. I also think you should know that slaves do not speak until spoken to, unless the Master or the overseers really need to know something.'

'How can I know if you really need to know something, Boss, if I don't ask you?

'Roge, you'll know. You'll know.'

Talking to Roge was like talking to a big child, a big glorious beautiful chiselled hunk with the mind of a child, who had only known sport, the sheilas as he called them, and beer.

'So, Roge, what's the question?'

He swallowed hard.

'Boss, are you going to bugger me?'

My sip of coffee hit the back of my throat and went down the wrong way.

When I had caught my breath, I asked, 'Now, Roge, what has brought that on?'

'Bob says that you bugger all of the slaves.'

'Not true, Roge, I do have and have had a lot of the slaves in my bed. But not all of them.'

Well, that was true, I said to myself. Heavens, there are almost six hundred slaves at the Lime Palace at the moment and it would have required some level of sexual athleticism at more than Olympic levels to have managed bedding them all.

'I have had sex with the slaves who have been given to me or whom I have bought. I have not had sex with the slaves who were former prisoners and who are now here at the Palace.'

'You bought me, Boss,' he said quietly.

For someone whose capacities lay on the football field, Roge's capacity for abbreviated syllogistic logic was surprising.

'Well, Roge, let's say that I am not going to bed you until you want to be bedded and while you're at it, you can unclench your bums. They're locked tighter than the gates of Fort Knox.'

'You mean that, Boss? You really mean that?'

'It's a deal, as long as there are no more questions.'

'Not for today, Boss.'

'For the moment let me see you do ten laps of the Palace and later on Rolf in the gym will have a special fitness programme for you.'

Roge Harte sprinted off like a rabbit. His muscled thighs flashed in the morning light as he hared across the courtyard. Poetry in motion!

What had been achieved that day in Roge Harte training? Well, first he was addressing his Master as `Boss'. Secondly, he knew that he could get an honest answer from me as his Boss and a promise of a reward for work well done. Ah, dear, training a slave like Roge is such a slow process, but such a delightfully pleasant erotic experience as well, something that every Master should promise himself once a decade.

Bob came back to collect something off the breakfast table.

'Bob, what did you say to Roge, may I ask? He says that you told him I was going to bugger him.

'Ouch!' was the reply.

Bob had this mannerism of not exactly answering a question. And now he was grimacing his face, his lips drawn back in a forced teeth-revealing facial distortion -- as he imagined the conversation between Roge and myself to which he had undoubtedly contributed.

'He also said, you told him I have buggered all the slaves.'

'Ouch again, Boss. Sorry. I don't think I actually said that. He must have taken it up wrongly.'

'Wrongly is the wrong word. He came up here this morning with his bum cheeks clenched so tight that not even a crowbar could have separated them.'

'Boss, he sees you calling him each time and inspecting him personally here on the veranda. He thinks this is all to make him into a better Master's fuck buddy.'

'Yes, Bob, I picked that up. I told him it was not so.'

'You're not going to fuck that cute ass of his, Boss? Not even Rolf comes close and Rolf has one of the best.'

'And since when did you become such a specialist in butts, Bob.'

'Sorry, Boss. It won't happen again.'

It's very difficult to be annoyed at Bob, not only because he does his work so well in serving my table, but also fills in so well as an assistant overseer at the Lime Palace. The fact that he has such a superbly fit jock's body also makes it difficult to concentrate that long on actually being annoyed with him.

Roge was back from his ten-lap run in about twelve or so minutes. I was pleased that he went to 'display' both naturally and without any prompting.

His hands behind his neck showed his armpits to perfection with their light blond hair slightly matted in sweat, his chest heaving and little rivers of perspiration flowing down his body.

'Closer, Roge, let me look at your biceps, but first take a glass of water,' and I offered him my own glass.

My legs were out in front of me and as I was seated between the breakfast table and the banister of the veranda, Roge had to come closer sidling up by putting a leg on either side of mine. He stopped when his legs were on either side of my thighs. How devious a Master can be from time to time!

As he drank his water, I ran the back of one of my fingers down from his bent elbow over the bicep and into the axilla. His body trembled lightly at the touch, more that of skin reacting to skin. His pit was totally wet, not just moist. I tasted the sweat. It tasted clean. I touched his other axilla with my finger and now Roge's body was accustomed to my touch and instead of bringing it to my lips, I put it on his lips and waited and waited until his tongue finally touched its tip.

'See, Roge, your sweat tastes sweet.'

'Is that good, Boss?' he asked a little hoarsely, as he handed me back the glass.

'Yes, Roge, that is very good. It means a very healthy body.'

There was the flicker of a smile. Roge liked to be praised and given little challenges which he could accomplish.

'Now, let me take a look at the rest of your front, Roge. This small amount of chest hair, we're going to get rid of. I want to see your pecs as they develop free of any body hair. They will look much better that way, don't you think?'

'Yes, Boss.'

'But, I am going to leave all armpit hair, which looks very becoming, a two inch band or so of pubic hair down here, so that that beautiful cock and balls can be seen in all their glory and this hair on your balls -- and I ran my fingers lightly under his balls--will go as well, as well as the hair on your legs.'

'Yes, Boss,' and I could see him swallowing hard.

'I want you looking your clean-cut best, Roge, as you build up your body.'

'Yes, Boss.'

'Good man. Now let me give you the first part of your training lesson for the day,' and I took his cock in my hand.

It was warm and firm and full-fleshed to my touch. I eased back the foreskin to reveal the bright pink acorn of the cock head. The glans was smooth and one or two goose pimples formed in the cool morning air around its beautifully shaped corona.

'See how your foreskin eases back so well, Roge and sits behind the crown of your cock head, just like a winter scarf.'

Roge nodded in fascination, as if he had never seen his own cock before, perhaps not in the hand of a man anyway. But he just nodded again and swallowed.

'We'll concentrate on the flange of the corona another day, but for the moment we'll just examine and train the fraenulum a little. Do you see this little fold of skin under the slit of your urethra? That's the fraenulum -- it means 'a little brake' -- and it keeps the cock poised just at the right angle for penetration when that is to occur. But like many parts of the human body, it has a second function and that is to stimulate the cock head into readiness for sex.'

Roge was swallowing hard as his penis flexed its internal muscles, flooded its veins and blood vessels and grew from its flaccid, well semi-flaccid six inches, to a respectable seven inches or so.

I was gently creating small circles with my thumb under the slit of the penis, caressing the small fold of skin and the point under the penis where the two sides of the corona met. The piss slit took on its secondary function and started to ooze precum in anticipation of penetrative sex. Using a spot of precum, I made the friction of my thumb even less frictionless as I continued my gentle rubbing.

Roge was now breathing heavily. His cock had hardened considerably. He did not yet have the skills or controls to will his erection to stay without achieving orgasm. The thrusting forward of his hips showed that he was seeking the cliff-edge of pleasure over which an orgasm could bungee-jump for that final rush of sexual pleasure.

I eased up a little on my rubbing of his fraenulum and I sensed a lessening of pre-orgasmic tensions.

There are merely two ways of asking for sex - directly or indirectly. A direct request can run the entire gamut of verbalising from 'let's fuck' to suggestions and pleadings of 'let's make love', to unmistakeable dress of people on the side of the street and body language of stance and poise.

An indirect request is more likely on the lines of 'Let's go to bed.'

Roge Harte, the all-male, all-macho, all-alpha dominant of the species, chose the latter format. He was straighter than the proverbial arrow, more red-blooded than prime steak. His body demanded sexual release. He, a totally straight heterosexual, could not ask for a blowjob from a guy, even me, his owner and Master and Boss. So he did the next best thing.

'Boss, can I close my eyes?'

The previous occasion in his training, which was essentially a technique to get him used to not just my presence, to my instruction, but also to my touch, as his climax had approached and I had sensed it, I had told him, 'Roge, close your eyes.' His climax had followed on that occasion with the force of a torpedo.

Now his 'Boss, can I close my eyes?' plea was as clear a petition and statement that he was near coming and wanted that extra pleasure which strict conformity to his sexual orientation was denying him. Necessity is the mother of invention. So Roge was choosing the oblique indirect course of action.

'Yes, you can, Roge, but when you do, I want you to count up to thirty. You are not to come until you get to thirty. Do you follow? And at thirty, you can let your body relax and you can come all you want.'

'Yes, Boss' and he jammed his eyes shut, 'one, two, three...'

Had Roge been anyway clever or devious he could have rushed thought his counting, but he counted, as if picking up apples or oranges.

I let him get to 'five' and then took his cock head into my mouth. I thought that he might have lost it there and then with a shudder which went through his body. I let my lips run over his glans and down the back of the flange of his penis and very gently up the rough under-skin of his prepuce now stretched back down the shaft of his penis.

At 'fifteen', I stopped a second and said, "how is it going, Rog?'

'Great, Boss, great, please don't stop, sixteen, seventeen...'

Fair dues to Roge, I could see that he was going to make it when he reached 'twenty five', despite the shuddering of his body and the thrusting of his hips and the trickle of sweat coming down the side of his right cheek. So, I cheated and let my teeth work a little magic on the shaft of his penis between 'twenty six' and 'twenty eight' and at 'twenty nine' he exploded down my throat in rich and smooth and nut-tasting ejaculation after ejaculation.

Roge was gasping, as if he done circuits of the Palace.

'Roge, I'm a bit disappointed. You almost made it, but not quite. I think we are going to have to do this exercise technique again a few times and the next time, it will be up to forty not thirty. Do you think you will be able to handle that?'

'Yes, Boss. Thank you, Boss.'

'Now off you go and find out what work Bob and Dumi have lined up for you today.'

'Yes, Boss,' and off he fled, the classically sculptured cheeks of his backside disappearing in the courtyard.

What had we learned from Roge by day fifteen of his training? First that he would and could ask for sex, even though his first request was indirect. Secondly, he would permit sex from another man. Thirdly, he did not object after fifteen days to be seen in public engaged in gay sex.

End of Chapter 8