Dahran

This is the fifteenth 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 15 -- The Lifting

Never say 'never', because that is the one thing you will end up doing. Never say you will never go paragliding, bungee-jumping, eating frog-legs or whatever does not take your fancy, because as sure as a day is dry in Dahra that is precisely what you will end up doing.

When I was looking for English teachers for the slaves and none were readily available with any sort of half-decent qualifications, one of the slave-dealers had asked, if I had wanted a teacher 'lifted' and I had immediately blurted out 'no' -- such was my abhorrence of me being the cause of another's slavery.

Fate had put me in a position to indulge my whims in the purchase of beautiful slaves, slaves to serve my needs both sexually and in the running of my Palaces and while I could quite readily agree in my own mind to owning them -- admittedly after somewhat of an initial shock -- to purchase an already enslaved slave was one thing. To cause another to be enslaved, well, for me at least that was quite another thing.

I changed my opinion on one occasion and I am quite ready to raise my hand and admit to that. I have mentioned previously that my doctor and surgeon at the Lime Palace, Yves Fournier, had a son continuously in trouble with drugs in France, who had been finally arrested in possession of cocaine for supply.

I pulled a rabbit out of the hat and had the son, Jean-Pierre, sentenced on a minor charge, which would see him released from a low-security prison outside Lyon in mid-September -- that being in two weeks' time.

Both Cal Thorsen, the dentist and Yves Fournier had taken holidays in August. Cal went back to the States to his wife and, at that point, to his two boys on his yearly visit. Yves Fournier had intended going back to France to see his son. That much I had known in advance of his departure.

What Yves did not know was that Josh Green, my lawyer, in the Grand Cayman Island, had one of the prison officers of the low-security prison outside Lyon on a retainer, as much to ensure the protection of Jean-Pierre Fournier while in prison, as well as giving a written report each month on how he was behaving, attempting to reform, stay clear of drugs, etc.

That was the theory. The reality of the situation was that Jean-Pierre was everything his father was not. He was uncaring, selfish, self-absorbed, a liar, a cheat, continually in the face of other prisoners, leading a charmed life with the prison officers due to his 'guardian angel' on retainer. In fact, he was more than a handful.

It could not be proven, but the officer whose report arrived faithfully from one month after the trial and sentence, said all the prison officers who came in contact with Jean-Pierre Fournier believed he was somehow still getting drugs, ecstasy and amphetamines, in particular, inside the prison. At least, there was no mention of the cocaine, which he previously had been on.

Reading between the lines of the report, the prison officer was not concerned about the effect of the drug on the prisoner, but rather that neither he nor his colleagues had been able to locate the source or the stash.

I was now looking at the last report received from the prison officer on retainer. Yves had visited his son. There had been words spoken between them. Twice the officer present had to tell Jean-Pierre to sit down. The content of the conversation had not been reported. It did not require a degree in astrophysics to draw lines between all the dots and create the picture. Jean-Pierre still had a totally unreformed attitude towards his father, life and the system, which had put him in jail.

My hand rested on the phone on my desk in the Bank for well on two minutes before I started to punch in the keys, on the day I made my decision. I rang the Dahra Bilton and reserved a table for two for lunch. I then rang the slave-dealer in al-Qatim and invited him to the Bilton as my guest to lunch.

I looked at the first report on Jean-Pierre Fournier and wondered where he had gone wrong. A troubled teenager, the best of schools in France, a mother dying, a famous father always busy at work, run-ins with the law from fifteen, drugs -- that could be proven, but most likely earlier as well - from seventeen years of age. The rest was downhill with a final stop at the Lyon low security prison.

I photocopied the colour photographs on file on my private copier, plus the initial report and the last report. That information should be enough. I went down to the main hall of the Bank and when one of the tellers was free, I took twenty thousand euro in cash out of my personal account. For what I was about to do, best not to leave a paper trail.

Before going in to lunch in the restaurant of the hotel, I invited the al-Qatim slave-dealer to a settee, overlooking the fountain in the square and passed him over the folder I had compiled that morning.

'This man will be released from jail in two weeks' time. How much to have him lifted and brought here?'

I did not ask if it were possible. I knew that all things were possible in Dahra for a fee and everywhere else for that matter, where money spoke the languages of fulfilled whims and unfulfilled possibilities.

'From France, Sir Jonathan, a normal fee for 'lifting' would be five or six thousand euro. Transfer costs here another four or five.'

It was more or less what I had thought, but I had come doubly prepared. I gave the slave dealer one of the Bank's two million-a-year personal pension plan brochures, with ten thousand euro inside it. He took the brochure and said with a smile, 'I shall study this carefully.'

Had anyone seen the transaction, I was inviting him to look at our top range of pensions.

'Should it require more...'

The dealer held up a hand to stop me completing the sentence. That was the moment that Jean-Pierre Fournier's life changed, though he did not know it yet.

I gave instructions to the slave dealer of how my target was to be observed after release and what action I wanted to be taken if he tried to buy drugs, or engaged in other behaviour which would have easily put him back in jail.

The lunch was an anti-climax. I could not concentrate on it and it will give an idea of my state of mind that I could not even remember what the main course was as I was being driven back to the Bank.

At ten day intervals, I took my recent purchases - the three English slaves -- all three of them to my bed, when their test results were in all clear. Donnie sniffled his way though an hour of hard unrelenting bare-backing but he was too young and inexperienced to enjoy anything. He was broken quickly and easily.

Justie surprised me, because as soon as he was penetrated, he kept on saying, 'Oh, sir. Oh sir. Oh sir.'

When I stopped for a breather at one stage of the evening, it was at a stage when I had his legs over my shoulders, I felt him clenching and relaxing his sphincter muscles on my still inserted cock and the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

'Are you trying to tell me something, Justie?'

'Yes, Master. Something I have never told anyone else before. Something I was afraid to even admit to myself before,' he replied with a blush.

'Well, Justie, do you want to keep it in the family for the time being?

'Yes, Master.'

He was broken with pleasure and ease.

The taking of Gary was ten days after that session with Justie, who was just coming to terms with his own sexuality. It was as different to the other two as chalk and cheese.

Gary had arrived with Komil in the bedroom suite, before I had gone up for the evening and was on 'display' when I arrived. As I am usually lightly dressed in the evenings, it is only a question of stepping out of the clothes of the moment and so I did.

I circled to the back of Gary and putting his arms down by his side, I draped mine over his shoulders -- I am a little taller than he and started to play with his nipples. No sooner than I had gently flicked a nail over each a couple of times, but I could see him coming to erection. Komil also was beginning to rise at seeing the sex play being enacted.

'You are looking very well, Gary. You have the makings of a great all-over tan and you are beginning to look a lot fitter than when you arrived here.'

'Thank you, Master.'

'Gary, back home, how often did you have a girl in bed?'

'Four or five times in all, sir.'

'So you know all about gentleness in love-making, eh?'

'Not really, sir. I am just learning some of the new techniques at the moment, sir.'

'Are you afraid of what is going to happen tonight?'

'No, sir.'

'Why not?'

'Donnie and Justie told me how you had made love to them and it did not hurt them, sir.'

'And what makes you think that I am not going to play rough with you tonight, Gary?'

'Just a hunch, sir. Sir, can I ask a question?'

'You always seem to have questions, Gary. What?'

'Why did you buy the three of us, sir? We were actually taken out of the auction, sir.'

'Because of you, Gary.'

'Me, sir?' he stuttered, surprised.

'You put your friends first. Secondly, I buy the washed out slaves from the opal mine when they come on the market. I just did not want to be buying you seven years down the line, a worn-out old man at twenty seven years of age. Thirdly, I was trying to remember whether at twenty years of age, I had as good and loyal a friend, as you are to Justie and Donnie. Does that explain matters to you, or have you more questions?'

'Yes, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir.'

'Now, I have one question for you. Do you know how to sixty-nine yet?'

'Yes, sir, it's one of the sex techniques we have been learning.'

'Fine, come over to the bed and let me see what you have learned.'

With two fingers on my shoulder, as he would have been taught, Gary led me over to the bed and laid me down. Climbing over my chest, he put a leg on either side of me and started to lick the shaft of my cock, as if it were flavour of the day, his own cock and balls hanging over my lips and chin.

I let him get into a relaxed rhythm and just ran my hands up the back of his thighs and over his buttocks, which were both rounded and angular at the same time. During one pass, I allowed a finger to pass over his anus and he shivered. His balls were totally smooth. After three applications, the French depilatory cream had worked its final wonders and his body skin all over -- not just from coccyx to the inguinal area - was quite soft and warm to the touch, without a trace of hair whatsoever.

I felt Gary take my now hardening member in this mouth and start the laving of my foreskin with his tongue. He was just using his lips alone to get the foreskin on my cock to move back over the glans in gentle movements of his mouth. His own cock was beginning to leak precum, so I took it into my mouth and washed its circumcised head with my tongue. He immediately became hard and groaned.

I licked and sucked his hairless balls, their pink undertones darkening with every pass of my tongue. Gary was leaking too fast, becoming too hard, too stiff too fast, so I slipped out from under him and told him to put his chest on the bed and put his hands in the centre of his back, the position of a true submissive. He complied immediately.

I ran my tongue down the crack of his ass, circled my prey and let the flat of my tongue cross his anus, whose muscles were firming, clinching inwards towards its centre. He gasped audibly a number of times. I could taste the scent of the lube, which he had put on his back passage, though it was almost scent-free.

Those on the edges of the agony of the unknown are best put out of their agony quickly and holding his left shoulder with one hand and placing my right hand on the upward pointing palms of his in the centre of his back, I let my cock rest on his anal orifice for two seconds and pushed inwards.

'Master, oh fuck, oh Master...' was all I heard as I pressed firmly in and was held clutched by the tightest muscles I had felt in a long, long time. I pushed gently and firmly in and my manhood in all its precious inches was in to the hilt and my pubes were kissed by the outer muscles of Gary's sphincter.

I let my cock rest inside the former squaddie for some seconds to allow the internal muscles to adjust and then set up a firm sequence of slow pull-outs, just the flange of my cock followed each time by a quick inward thrust.

The muscles on Gary's back were tense and a deep furrow in the skin ran down his spine from between his shoulder blades to the crack in this buttocks. Then I felt the almost imperceptible relaxation of his anal muscles, as they either could no longer keep to a contracted state or grip my well lubricated cock. I availed of the moment to increase the pace of my thrusts and Gary, gripping my right hand in the middle of his back, as if it were the rail of the Titanic, started to press back against the thrusts. It was all I needed to cross the river of no return and as my balls churned out a spewing load, shot after shot of semen was lodged inside a faithful friend of one slave and the loyal pal of another.

I pulled out and falling down beside Gary, who was now flat on his stomach, I pulled his sweating body over me and indicated to the patiently standing Komil to approach.

Komil's member, while always large from any viewpoint, is best not seen by those who are going to be impaled on its length and girth. He likes his 'bun buttered', that is to say to fuck the recently fucked.

I simply held Gary tight to my chest, his arms by my side, wrapped my legs around the back of his knees and nodded to Komil. Gary did not realise at first what was to happen, but Komil did not delay. His massive appendage was positioned. Its purple glans touched the still gaping hole of the fucked slave and with a single trust in excess of twelve inches of solid flesh was hurled up his chute lubricated first with the supplied lube and secondly with my cum.

Gary screamed his shouts. I held him tight. He shouted something incoherent again and yet again. I held him tighter. Komil knows that he must shoot by the tenth thrust, or pull out entirely out of one of my slaves whom I have just serviced. He came on the eighth thrust, such is his control and the ninth thrust released another salvo and the tenth a parting shot.

'Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,' was all I heard from the head which was now buried crying on my shoulder, when it was finished. When Gary finally raised his head, his eyes were red with tears. The perspiration was coating his body.

'Gary, you need never worry about being fucked again. That is the most pain you will ever feel. Tomorrow ask Donnie or Justie if either want to be your buddy. If neither, let me know if you have chosen another, if not, I will get you one. Any questions?'

'No, Master,' was the whispered and laboured reply.

'That truly is a wonder,' I answered, `now let's get to sleep.'

The following day Justie became Gary's buddy and continues so to the very day I am writing this diary.

As for Donnie, he literally walked into Iñaki Ergoitia, the Basque slave, one day and when both had picked themselves up, they discovered that each had more to offer the other than an apology.

The lifters' report in my hand said it all. Or at least, all that truly mattered. Twelve days after my talk with the slave-dealer in the capital city, Jean-Pierre Fournier was released from prison in France. The bus for Lyon stops outside the prison and he got on, but got off it before it reached the city.

Two unmarked vehicles - a van and a large car - followed him and the bus unbeknownst to him. Alighting from the bus to Lyon, he ran across the road to get on another bus, departing towards Villeurbanne. The vehicles, having done a u-turn in the road, followed at a discrete distance, as the bus branched off for the secondary town.

Alighting from the bus, the newly released prisoner quickly headed toward the local market, slipping in and around the striped awnings of the bric-a-brac stands. One of his followers had on foot noted that he went up to a door knocked one and then knocked again. The door opened almost immediately and admitted Jean-Pierre Fournier.

It took the following vehicles a couple of minutes to get around the one way system of the market, as there were a lot of pedestrians milling around in its centre and spilling onto the street that ran round the marketplace.

The followers were just getting nervous that their target had somehow eluded them, when a smiling and happy Jean-Pierre came out of the building.

A `lost' driver with an unfolded map was standing by a car scratching his head and turning the map round and round on the top of his car.

The driver called Jean-Pierre asking him where the next turn on the road back to Lyon was and could he show him the road out of the marketplace. Jean-Pierre never saw the small syringe under the map whose needle was embedded into his arm.

Jean-Pierre Fournier woke up in the hold of a ship. He was naked and handcuffed by his right wrist to a short chain in a cabin. His clothes thrown in a corner of the cabin included the balance of the ecstasy tablets he had purchased.

The report of his capture and transport to Dahra did not go beyond two pages of details. It did not have to. Jean-Pierre Fournier had been well and truly 'lifted'.

Upon his arrival at al-Qatim, he was transported to a cell at the auction-rooms. I looked at him there behind his bars. He would not, of course, have known who I was. I was trying to find some sort of redeeming factor to save him from himself. He had not been touched in any way, other than pointed to a shower to clean himself up.

When I stood outside his bars, he ranted and raved. I said nothing and tried to see some resemblance to Yves, the man I respected and admired back at the Lime Palace for the amount of healing he had brought to others. I could see no resemblance.

I was not moved at all when the dealer came in with a man who looked something like a customs officer, who produced the nearest thing I could describe as a large bolt cutter with a circular head. It was the tool for putting on the GPS - global positioning satellite -- bracelet, which is on the right ankle of every slave in Dahra. It was more like the arrival of the plumber or the gasman to fix something or take a reading.

What struck me afterwards was that no one actually spoke -- that is except for Jean-Pierre, who was cursing blindly at all -- which reminded me that my school French needed polishing up on modern expletives.

One of the slave-dealer's assistants merely motioned to two heavily built slaves to take the new arrival out and spread-eagle him over a table. In less than a minute, Jean-Pierre was flat on his stomach, hands and legs fastened to the legs of the table, his head hanging over the far side.

The 'customs officer' approached the prone figure, knelt down on one knee, put the round head of the 'bolt cutter' around Jean-Pierre's right ankle. There was a 'pop' much as you would hear on opening a can of beer. The 'customs officer' type got up, brushed the knee of his trousers, took out a small device, which beeped once, nodded for some reason to me, shook the hand of the slave-dealer and was gone.

I looked at Jean-Pierre's right ankle and on it glittered a bright titanium coloured GPS bracelet. The man on the table had now stopped being a person and had become a slave for life, owned by me.

I walked out of the pen area and handed the slave-dealer an envelope containing the other ten thousand I'd with me on the day of our lunch. The dealer opened the flap of the envelope, raised an eyebrow and said in Arabic 'Master, this is not necessary. All is paid for. You can take him whenever you like.'

I shook my head and said, `Can you hold him until I call you, perhaps in four weeks? This will cover your expenses.'

'Expenses, Sir Jonathan?'

'I want him as well trained in a month, as you and your staff can train a slave.'

'Your wish is my duty, Sir Jonathan. We will train him starting right away. A new slave like this one -- totally disobedient is given a very quick introduction to his new life.'

The dealer must have seen the question in my eyes or face.

'We flog him, but in a special way, as normally the slave has to be sold later by us for a good price and not as damaged goods. We therefore cannot harm the slave or his beauty, if he has such, or damage his skin permanently. Do you wish to observer, Sir Jonathan?'

I was intrigued at what this special way could be. A flogging is a flogging is a flogging.

`May I suggest, Sir Jonathan, that you just observe from the side. No comments. The slave must know from whom the orders are coming, in this case, your humble servant.'

I nodded agreement and we stepped back into the pen and cell area. The slave-dealer barked some quick instructions and the two slaves who had put Jean-Pierre on the table scurried out.

A minute later, I was looking at the two slaves hastening back in with a bowl and a container showing the handles of some form of riding crops or quirts sticking out of it. Quite unashamedly the slaves began to piss into the bowl. I was quite astonished as I had not heard or seen of anything like this before.

When they had finished pissing, which I would say had yielded something in the region of a litre of yellow urine between them, the slaves produced two paint brushes, I could not call them anything else, and proceeded to 'varnish' the back of Jean-Pierre with the piss from the bowl. The ludicrously amusing idea came into my mind that they were basting him like a turkey before going into the oven.

Soon the smell of piss pervaded the room akin to that coming from the urinals of a restroom. Dahra is hot at the best of times and indoors can at times be very close and clammy. I would have thought that there would have been some form of ventilation, but there was not as far as I could appreciate.

I was engrossed in the scene unfolding before me. Jean-Pierre was now 'varnished' in piss from his neck to the back of the calves of his legs and all parts in between. He had not ceased to roar and yell, but I got the impression not as loudly as previously.

The slave-dealer beside me said, 'The riding quirts are steeping in a container of camel piss, Master. If makes them very supple and if by accident, the skin is broken in any place, the piss of the camel is an antiseptic; a smelly antiseptic I can tell you, but one which does not allow infection to set in.'

The dealer nodded to the slaves who chose two of the riding quirts, positioned themselves on either side of the new slave and synchronising their movements started to flog the prone figure.

There was no dramatic crack of whips. The slaves were applying force, but not an ultimate or great force, to the blows, which I saw were only to that side of the body closest to each slave. Each had their own half or side of the body to flog. Starting at Jean-Pierre's shoulders, they worked their way quite literally centimetre by centimetre down either side of his back. His screams were agonizing, half shouting and half sobbing.

Arriving at waist level, without anyone telling them, the slaves stopped the flogging, put their quirts back into the container of camel piss, took up the bowl of their own urine and started to 'varnish' the back on the flogged slave again.

I had not seen a single break in the skin, thought it was clearly enflamed and reddened in a series of pencil thin stripes from neck to waist. However, the piss being 'varnished' on had a dramatic effect. The slave almost went ballistic.

I looked at the slave-dealer for an explanation, which he was evidently waiting to supply.

'When the slave's skin is flogged it heats up. The fresh urine in the bowl cools the skin down, but a minute portion of the urea in the urine is absorbed by the skin itself. A delicious pain and one which the slave will never forget.'

The slaves had finished their second 'varnishing'. The slave was now hoarse from shouting and sobbing. The two perspiring floggers took out what I saw were new riding quirts and with a half nod to each other, started on the slave back from the waist downwards.

The buttocks became a ruddy colour. Under the globes of the backside, the skin reddened, but when the strokes of the crops hit the back of the thighs proper, the slave started to jerk around on the table, his cries no longer intelligible and when the backs of the knees were reached, mercifully, he lost consciousness.

Two buckets of water over the slave's head and shoulders brought him round again, in time for him to realise that the re-varnishing of his lower back and thighs had begun.

I had seen enough. The day was warm. The room was too warm. The smell of piss, human and camel, overpowering. My last look at the slave on the table told me that his agony, which he thought might be partly over, had in fact only partly begun. I nodded to the slave-dealer and we walked out into the fresh air.

`Sir Jonathan, leave the slave with me for the month and you will not believe the difference. These are simply procedures of ours, nothing as sophisticated as your own retraining procedures, I am sure. But ours are well tried and tested.'

I nodded to the slave-dealer and breathed in the warm afternoon air.

As I drove back to the Lime Palace, I resolved to have dinner with all the medical staff and those of the overseers who were not engaged in other duties. At times, it is necessary to take refuge in food, in its proper serving and in its enjoyment with others as an expression of our civilisation and way of life.

I thought that Yves Fournier, my doctor, needed at this moment all the support I could give him, as he would be undoubtedly worried about his son. How would I find a way to say to him that his son was no in Dahra? How to tell him he had now lost an insolent and wanton drug addict of a son on the road to self-destruction and was about to find that son converted into a most obedient slave of mine, safe from his own destructive quests and abuse of drugs?

That way was going to require some finding!

End of Chapter 15