Dahran

This is the eleventh 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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The Special Memories by Gerry Taylor

Chapter 11 -- The Hobart Gangers

That particular Friday, I had to wait until late afternoon for the Grand Cayman morning time zone to match with Dahran evening time. I first rang my Bank there to find out the state of my affairs which were very healthy with over half my assets in cash on deposit around the world. I had the Bank transfer twenty million euro, effectively three months water income, to the Buddy Foundation's account.

Then when I got my lawyer, Josh Green on the line, I told him of the funds transfer and my plans for the Hobart Gangers. He never queried the why or the wherefore as always and as usual he was a model of efficiency.

Within two days, he had set up an Australian company and brought onto its Board a very respected, retiring, AFL -- Australian Football League - official, a former player with the Gangers and another of the present team whose last season it was.

Over the following weeks, an offer was made to the existing Directors of the Gangers who were also the shareholders for the entire stock of the club, which I could not believe was sold to us for less than a million Australian dollars. The old Directors were of the opinion that the club would have to fold before the next season even began and were anxious to get out.

It took another million Australian dollars to bolster up the pension plan, to get five players over twenty eight of age in the club to resign, plus the manager. The resigning players ended up on half their salary with results-based contracts to go out into the highways and byways, to recruit young talent for the `Roge Harte Young Ganger Clubs', which were going to be created and which would supply each young hopeful with a full kit plus a mountain bike and an opportunity to be invited as members of the Clubs.

It would took just over ten million euro to buy eight new players, all of whom were either Roge's first or second choices and off-the-cuff declarations in my study that previous morning, plus the new manager, who had been Roge Harte's second choice.

As all of this was happening after the closure of the season, it went relatively unnoticed until a four million euro building programme was started to replace two stands and put in a spanking new state of the art club house at the pitch.

When questions were asked, who was behind the new company owning the club, the stock reply was the Buddy Foundation in the Grand Caymans who wanted to do something in the memory of one of Tasmania's young greats who had disappeared mysteriously in Western Australia, Roger F. Harte, in whose name the new youth clubs were named.

The work on the restructuring of the Hobart Gangers when on apace with one side result of the dinner with the Sheik, or rather my sitting at his right-hand side. There was an inward flow of over sixty invitations to happenings in Dahra over the following month, all of which I declined politely. Although I did not particularly relish the time spent at my desk composing courteous refusals, I still thought it was preferable to exerting myself in endless small talk, while being propelled through Dahran society.

The Sheik's word was good and fifty billion euro transferred to the Bank for management and investment. When I rang Charlie Deckam, our Chairman, in London to tell him, he merely said 'Well done, Jonathan lad, I love to hear when our branches are working hard at it. That merits a lunch when next in London!' and he was off the line.

What I was not able to avoid, however, not that I really would have tried to, were the twenty invitations from my neighbours, who were purchasing water from me, as a quid pro quo for my dinner with them as my guests. Each Monday in the months following my springing of the favourable water-contract on them, there was an invitation to dinner from one or other of my twenty neighbours.

It was for me an insight into private Dahran families, which would never have been granted to an outsider. Some of my neighbours kept it to a 'business' dinner with only the other neighbours, who were under water contract to me. Others -- all incidentally were married, none being bachelors -- had their wives and children present - for a portion of the meal. Others had present their wives only, with children being introduced and then whisked away.

The difficulty in going to such dinners is that you cannot arrive with one arm as long as the other, as one is wont to say. You have to bring a present. An upbringing in Europe teaches one to arrive with the face-saving bottle of wine, but in a country where alcohol is not publicly consumed, nor to any great level at private dinners, I had solved the problem by having my Saville Row tailors send me out twenty extra long lengths of the new soft Mohairs, which are now all the rage.

While most Arabs will dress for comfort and the heat in traditional dress, all will at times don a western suit for whatever purposes.

After the third or so dinner, with my ever similarly wrapped present under my arm, there would be broad smiles from the other guests as they glanced to see the pattern or colour of the Mohair being given to the host. Thankfully my tailors had followed my instructions in that no two of the Mohairs were the same.

I did ask Jalal al-Akhri if he was instrumental in organising the series of dinners and though he never admitted it, skilfully avoiding a direct answer, he was almost caught out one dinner when I heard one of the neighbours saying to him, 'Well, Jalal, where are we eating next Monday?'

The courtesy of neighbours is always a pleasure to be enjoyed.

One event occurred, which in hindsight was important. One of my neighbours had a section of lands, which was generally about a meter or three feet higher than the rest of his lands. It appeared, as if one portion of the land closer to the western road had sunk at some stage in the distant past and the other portion had not.

The water, which was pumped to his lands, arrived at the lower section. Why he did not have the water arrive to the higher section and have it flow down to the lower section by force of gravity I do not know. Why he did not have an electric or solar powered twenty-four hour pump installed, I know not either.

What my neighbouring landowner did install was a slave-powered water wheel. It was all of fifteen feet high and eight feet wide and in the middle was a 'stairs' or unending series of steps going round the internal circumference. If you have ever seen a mouse or gerbil using one of those toy wheels, you will have the idea immediately, but on a grander scale.

As the limousine drew close, I could see the figure of a slave inside the water wheel plodding 'up' the steps which under his weight caused the water wheel to move down and a container-bucket of water spilled into a tank on the upper section of the land.

I told Faisal to stop the limo and got out to view the water wheel up close. The slave on seeing me approach got out of the inside of the water wheel and made obeisance to me. I noticed three things -- he was unkempt and smelly even from a distance of some feet, he had a hut for want of a better word, a hovel more aptly, at some fifteen paces or so from the water wheel where he clearly slept at night and he was chained by a fifty or sixty foot length of light chain by his left leg to ring, on what looked like a wrecking crane's concrete ball.

I looked. I observed. I left. The slave was too foul smelling for me to approach the water wheel more closely and when I returned to the limousine, I saw that the water wheel had again started its circular motion.

My host was Musab al-Atti who, apart from his farm and lands, had a furniture business with various international franchises in the capital city. In after-dinner conversation, I enquired about the water wheel and was told, that in fact he had two. One on the way into his residence, which I had seen on the way in and the other on the far side of the property. Both were in his own words 'punishment wheels', for slaves who were not working hard enough in the opinion of their overseers.

When on holidays in Spain, Musab had seen two water wheels, one working and one broken. He had bought the broken one `for a camel's turd' as he put it -- for a song - and had it shipped back, reassembled to working condition and had increased and modified one in size to allow a ten foot inside hollow for a slave. He then had one of his factories build him a working model of the one I had seen.

'Why not simply install an electric pump, Musab?'

He did not answer the question directly, but merely replied, 'I love wood, perhaps because we have so little of it in Dahra. I love seeing wood used in machinery. The wheels themselves are totally wooden, even the nails are wooden dowels and are powered by those two slaves who are either being punished, or if no one requires punishment, by those two slaves who each month produce the least. They have a quota of water to pump to the high lands each day. If they work hard for six hours, they can do it in six. If they are lazy it will take them twelve. The wheel tells the slave that he must produce for the Master.'

'And what happens, Musab, if the slave does not reach the daily quota at all?'

'It never happens, as the slave knows he will not be fed that evening until the quota is reached. It is as simple as that.'

I was quite intrigued. I enquired the price of a wheel and when I heard. I ordered eight of them, two for the Aloe Palace and six for the Lime Palace. At worst, they would be follies -- ornaments on the landscape without a practical purpose -- at best, they might find a purpose.

When I told the overseers at one of our regular meetings, Stan said 'Water wheels, Boss? Water wheels!' -- clearly not impressed. But I thought that they would find a purpose in our gardens, particularly the water-gardens and add a nice touch and if the worst came to the worst, one of them could be a punishment wheel for a couple of days, for a recalcitrant or lazy slave! Little did I realise how that thought would crystallise later on and become the visible and perpetual sign of my anger.

It was in the first fortnight of April that I told Roge Harte that his old Club had been sold and the manager and some of the players had left. He had said a bit wistfully, 'well, Boss, that's it then. All good things come to an end.'

But when I told him of the AFL guy who had come onto the new Board and the two players whom he knew, he looked at me strangely, but said nothing.

I told him that the Club was thinking of setting up the 'Roge Harte Ganger Youth Clubs' and that made him blink a lot, as he tried to hold back the tears.

'Are you behind all of this, Boss?' he finally said very quietly looking at me half sideways.

'I think a guy who loves the game is the inspiration behind it, Roge. Who else would buy a clapped-out club, if he did not live for the sport and the game and not be bothered with matches won and lost? Would you not agree?'

He nodded, but his eyes were toward the floor and I could not see his face properly.

`I think, Roge, the Club is going to need someone who can put together a training programme for fourteen to seventeen year olds for these Youth Clubs, so that at least a few new players can come through each year - someone who knows the game inside out and who might have the time on his hands to do it properly.'

He nodded again and was sort of biting his lower lip, but not looking up at me.

`Can you think of anyone, Roge? Don't hurry yourself. Let me know. You may get an idea or two yourself, when you are running on the treadmill in the gym or out training yourself at the pool.'

Roge swallowed hard and said, 'Yes, Master.'

I looked at him.

'Master?'

'Yes, Master.'

'If you call me that, Roge, I will exercise my right of Master, not just my rights as the boss of this Palace. There's no going back on that decision.'

'Yes, Master,' and the golden boy of my dreams knelt down before me, looking up at me, slowly undid the belt of my trousers, pulled down the zip, and shucked down my trousers and boxers and taking my flaccid penis in his hand, brought his lips to it and kissing it gently said, 'Thank you, Master, for your patience with me.'

And then he carefully put my clothes back in place.

In my time, I have loved hard and I have loved gently. I have fucked relentlessly and I have fucked with the light touch of a warm summer breeze. I have caused a little pain from time to time to induce a greater pleasure. I have caused so much pleasure that pain has followed like day the night.

That night I personally invited Roge to come to me after dinner. I told Komil to find another for the night. It would be difficult enough with Roge on his own, without having Komil standing sentry in the background until his nightly bun was well and truly buttered by me. When he approached that evening, it was a different slave to the one who had stood hands on hips in that exercise room of the slave centre those ten weeks previously.

He appeared confident in his stance, yet unsure at the same time. His body was that of a man-boy, yet at the same time it was that of a boy-man. His levator scapulae muscles from shoulders to neck showed the results of ten weeks work in the gym. His hairless chest had the definition of one who is in training, with the little valley in between, which forms between two perfectly formed divisions of the chest.

At twenty six years of age, Roge was showing the best of his features with abdominal muscles well and truly formed into an emerging six-pack. At just six feet tall, over the months that six-pack would firm up, but right now it was invitingly rising and dipping between ridge of flesh, hard yet soft, topping a navel which was firmly flat against his belly, hardly a depression at all.

When we got to my quarters and my bedroom, he walked in surely, but hesitantly took a deep breath and said `Boss?'

It was more a question than a statement.

I looked at him in his perfection.

`Boss, I don't think I can change inside me, the way you might want me to be.'

`And how do you think I want you to change, Roge?'

`I know, Boss, that I still like women. These weeks have been great. But they have not changed me. I am not going to lie to you. Not even after all you have done for me and for the Club.'

`Do you think I have been trying to buy your favour, Roge, by helping the Club?'

`At first, I thought so, Boss, now I am not too sure.'

`Ah, the first step on the road to wisdom -- not being too sure. I know you are straight, Roge, and always will be. I want you to know, to show you how much I can love you. I want to show you how much I can love you for what you are -- the totally straight guy who loves the game, the sheilas and the beer, I think you said.'

`Honest?'

`Yes, Roge, honestly. But would you object to me loving you as I know how and of making you feel half of what I feel when you are around. Are you afraid that I am going to hurt you somehow?'

`No, Boss. It's just...it's just I'm afraid I might end up liking it somehow and forget that I like the sheilas a lot more than the guys, even if I were never to see another sheila around here ever,' and he gave a little laugh at the concept of lack of female company.

`Stop worrying, Roge, you and I are going on a voyage of exploration where you have never gone before and where I have gone frequently. You will discover tonight, if I am right, things you never knew before, maybe never wanted to know before, things you will love for the rest of your life and at the same time that you also still love women.'

I took Roge by the hand and put his hand on my chest.

`Now, Roge, undress me.'

He blinked and he started by taking off my shirt. His fingers were warm against my belly as he undid my pants, which dropped to the floor. My boxers were tenting and as I stepped out of my shoes and shuffled off the fallen trousers, Roge swallowed hard and pulled down my boxers. My cock was half swollen and just inches from his face. I let him rise and putting an arm around his waist led him to the bed.

`Roge, just relax and let me do the work tonight.'

I don't know if he caught the message that tonight was my active night and that other nights might be his.

On the bed, we lay on our sides facing each other. I let my left hand run over his side and back and buttocks.

`If I touch you anywhere tonight, Roge, that you don't want to be touched, you say so and I'll not touch you there.'

`Can I touch you, Boss?' he finally said.

I smiled at him and said, `I thought you would never ask, Roge.'

He put his hand under my arm and onto my back and left it there, not knowing really what to do with it.

My own hand was moving in small circles up his back and then I felt his hand move down towards the small of my back, reach out with its fingers towards the cheeks of my backside and again rest there without moving.

For quite some time, I touched Roge all over his back and front and down his belly and between his legs. When I touched his penis, it was erect and its uncut head was weeping a thick and plentiful viscous precum. I brought it to my lips and it was sweeter than sweet and a single drop was sufficient to wet both my lips it was so thickly liquid. I touched Roge's lips and inserted my finger, which touched the tip of his tongue. His lips moved and he sucked my finger.

My lips touched his jaw-line and moved to under his ear and up and over the cartilage of the ear and into its depths. He gasped, as if it were the first time anyone had ever licked the inside of his ear and I felt his penis stir.

I did not think that Roge was ready for voluntary kissing yet, plain or French, so I pushed his body away with two fingers and let my lips wander over his chest, licking and nibbling. His right nipple was small and firm and golden-brown, but the centre of the aureole was an underlying pink. I sucked it gently, then harder, and nipped it gently with my teeth until his back arched. I repeated the action on the other until he arched with similar results -- a gasp and another stir of his now more than firmly erect penis, whose tipped wetness was pressing against my lower stomach.

I let my tongue wander down his six-pack and he giggled at the tickle, but he gasped again when I sucked his navel and almost got my teeth to work on his flatness, but it was too level with his hard stomach muscles.

It was not more than an inch to the top of his cock and I took its wetness in my mouth pushing back the encircling foreskin down the shaft. While before Roge had always closed his eyes when I had sucked him off on the veranda, now I could see his eyes were following my actions. I adjusted my body so that I was now lying in the opposite direction to his. An eleven so to speak, as opposed to a sixty nine. I cupped his really warm balls and let them rest in the palm of my hand as I sucked my way down his cock.

Suddenly, I felt my own hard cock being touched. It was touched with the hardness of a finger, not with the softness of lips. It was being explored by a stranger in that unknown groin land. I eased up on my sucking of his penis and just kept it hard and wet and happy in my mouth.

The finger had become two and then had become three, as I calculated the touch. And then my balls were lifted and then dropped, as if he had gone too far on a battlefield and thought it better to retreat to safer and firmer ground.

Roge's fingers were now touching the wet top of my cock. A finger was touching the slit and then just under the tip and then around the flange. And then his fingers were holding the shaft of my penis and I felt the warmth of his breath on the tip of my penis a split second before I felt the enveloping warmth of his lips. A novice was now beginning to imitate a Master.

I gave him lesson one on how to suck just the head of the cock. He learned lesson one and followed me into lesson two and upwards. I felt like Scarlatti or Clementi composing exercises for a willing pupil. For over an hour, I let him learn his finger, lip and tongue lessons on my upright, as I taught him on his grand.

Never once did Roge say stop, and when I let my fingers wander between his now splayed legs and run the nail of my index finger down his perineum at the back of his ball sack, I knew that he was too close to coming for me to give him any further and greater lessons in sexual love.

So, I stopped my deeper perineum explorations, cupped his balls firmly and resumed a very tightly focussed sucking of his trembling penis. He came with force on the nineteenth or twentieth suck with spurts, which hit the back of my throat with machinegun regularity five or six times.

Roge was a novice at sucking, but there is a point where even the sucking of a novice pushes a Master over the edge of the cliffs of climax and I came quickly in his mouth. I was half thinking to myself that he would not swallow it. But Australians are tough and brave if anything, and as I turned to straighten up beside him, I could see him wetting his lips and making the final swallows of my cum.

`Roge, you are one beautiful and gentle lover. Where did you learn to suck like that?'

`I had this Master whose every move I was trying to follow,' he said with a grin.

`Tonight, Roge, you have learned a little more about love that you did not know before, I think. You are still the same Roge, with the same sexual orientation as two hours ago, but a little wiser. I only hope I pleased you as much as you have pleased me.'

A slave's gotta do, what a slave's gotta do', he half laughed at his little joke. And Boss, yes, I liked what you did. You sure know how to suck a guy off,' he said, again with a grin.

`Roge, other nights there will be other lessons. But tonight, you have learned that I will not hurt you. I will lead you and let you follow as slowly, or as quickly as you can. That will be up to you in a way. Now what do you say, if we both try to get a wink of sleep and see what the morning brings.'

Twenty minutes later, Roge, the boy-man who had left some of his boyishness charms behind and become more a man-boy, was sleeping soundly beside me and snoring ever so softly as he snuggled up to the warmth of my body.

Those first nights with Roge Harte I shall ever remember as treasured, fond and cherished memories in the languid and gentle taking of Roge Harte's body, of his virginity and dare I say it, of his love as he finally shared it with me. Because at the end of those long seventy days of his training, the longest I had ever spent on personally training a slave, he no longer loved the game, the sheilas and the beer. He loved the game, the sheilas, the beer and me, his Master.

I do not quite know if it was a game in his uncluttered mind to play hard all the time against the opponent for as long as possible and when no further points could be scored, no win ensured, a greater opposition having to be recognised, then and only then to make a full capitulation.

Roge Harte put together over the summer months a youth training programme to end all youth training programmes in Aussie Rules football. In time, it was copied in various other clubs. By the time the new season had started, we were down just over two thousand mountain bikes given out to fourteen to seventeen-year olds and we had no less than nine Roge Harte Young Gangers Clubs up and running each being managed by a former player who had come to the end of a footie career, in their majority from the Gangers, but who were now or still fiercely loyal to a Club, which had taken on a new lease of life.

When the new season started, two things happened, besides a colour brochure being produced, as well as a new website created, the first was that every single Gangers supporter arriving for the first match of the season got two free T-shirts and every kid got a tray of a fizzy drink and popcorn with an invitation to every fourteen to seventeen-year old to collect their mountain-bike if they had not already done so becoming a member of the nearest Roge Harte Young Gangers Club.

That bit of marketing cost just under half a million, but when two thousand kids joined up, the future of the Club was secure as to talent and when the Club won its first three matches in a straight row, something not done in over ten years, the team was on its way to success.

I wish I could say that the Hobart Gangers were a financial success. They were not. Over the years their financial losses amounted to a couple of million. In terms of the Lime Palace finances, that was the equivalent of less than two weeks' income from the water and worth every penny of it for the pleasure it brought me.

Admitted the team did well in the various leagues in which it participated and Roge's joy was to see such a number of potentially good young players come up through the ranks.

Roge Harte had one strange request. It was that I bed him once a month, which I did with pleasure, to both his pleasure and mine once he had learned some of the common love techniques.

I asked him why.

He replied 'So that I never forget what you have done, Master.'

I said, 'On one condition.'

He cocked his head inquisitively.

'That you go back to calling me 'Boss'. There are quite enough who don't know me and who call me 'Master'.'

'Boss, you have a deal,' he said with a wicked Tasmanian grin worthy of any Aussie Rules footballer.

Those summer months were a settling down period for Roge, who having prepared the training schedules for the Young Gangers thousands of miles away, became very adept in another field -- the sexual training of the slaves, as I shall mention elsewhere.

End of Chapter 11