Duped Chapter 7
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): December, 2012 Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
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"The characters and events in this story are purely fictitious and belong to the writer's imagination. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures"
Chapter 7
Hussein's instructions to me are quite explicit!
As he prepares me for Anwar's arrival, he instructs me on how I am to conduct myself in my Master's presence. It's unsettling to think that I'd ever considered Hussein as a friend but I had done so and as I think on this, I realize the depth of betrayal that he, his father and Anwar used in their dealings with me. Deliberately, they'd built up my trust in them to such a degree that I'd never doubted the "friendship" they'd falsely shown to me. How trusting and foolish I'd been. Sadly, I am now paying a high price for that trust.
Hussein has me "bend and spread" as he lubricates my asshole making it ready for my Master's cock. He scoops a dollop of a gel-like substance from the same phial that Miguel had used when he'd prepared himself for my cock. As it is applied to my asshole it feels cold and sticky but Hussein uses a finger to massage it into me. I have to say the sensation is pleasurable and involuntarily I find that I am grinding my ass back onto his finger; I am eager for more.
As his finger lubricates me and makes my ass ready for my Master's use, he tells me of the protocols I must now observe as a slave.
He informs me that I am to wait on my knees with my right foot crossed over my left ankle and with my legs spread wide. I am to hold my upper body erect with my chest thrust out and my stomach sucked in. And my fingers are to be intertwined behind my head. I am not to fidget or to sigh or to show any signs of boredom - no matter how long my Master keeps me waiting. A slave is not allowed to be bored; he must always show eagerness for his Master's attention.
Hussein tells me when my Master enters the room, I am to prostrate myself on the floor in the St Andrew's cross position and wait for his instructions. When my Master gives me his permission to pay homage to him, I am to crawl forward on all fours to his feet, kiss them three times and say.
"Master, your slave prostrates himself before you! Master, your slave presents himself to you! Master, what would you have your slave do to serve and please you?"
Hussein decides that rather than words, it would be better if I practised and so I am made to assume the kneeling position and when he instructs me to do, I prostrate myself before him and then crawl to his feet and kiss them in supplication. I disappoint Hussein and once again, I am the victim of his ire. He uses the cane on my ass as a "teaching aid". He makes me repeat the exercise until he is satisfied that I am at least familiar with it; even if my performance of it is ragged.
And he reminds me that whenever I am on "all fours', I must keep my knees spread apart so that my cock and balls hang low and swing freely between my thighs and my ass is on full display. He tells me this is obligatory for all slaves as their Arab Masters like to see their slaves display themselves openly.
Hussein then has me practise the standing at full display position and the modified display position. These are simple to learn and I am familiar with them; I'd seen Sven adopt these positions whenever I'd visited Anwar's London home.
Essentially, it is a "crash course" to give me the rudimentary protocols to use when Anwar arrives. Quite obviously, my movements lack finesse and grace and I will be instructed in these more fully - and painfully - when I am sold and my new Master undertakes my training. But they will suffice for now and Hussein seems moderately pleased with my efforts.
He orders me into the kneeling position and tells me to wait while he informs Anwar that I am ready for him. And he instructs me that as I wait, I am to remember what he has taught me. More importantly, however, I am to think of ways to please Anwar as he uses me.
This is the first time since my enslavement just two hours ago, that I have been alone. The room's silence is broken by my laboured breathing and the loud pounding of my heart. My chest heaves and my belly flutters with each ragged breath and the surging of my arterial blood roars in my ears. And occasionally, there is a strangled sob of anguish as I consider my changed circumstances.
The same questions repeat themselves in my troubled mind - why is this happening to me? And how could I have been so foolish and why couldn't I have foreseen this happening to me?
And naturally, I wonder about my uncertain future! What is in store for me? I fully understand that I am now a slave and next Saturday I will be sold to the man who bids highest for the right to own me. But there are other intangible questions about my future. For example, who will own me after Saturday's auction?
Will my new Master be an Arab and will I, like Miguel, serve as his slave in Maluchistan or some other Middle-Eastern country? Or will I be taken to London or some other large city and serve as Sven does? And there is a more chilling prospect and one that does appear very possible; I could be sold to some oil-rich, black billionaire and taken to a remote part of Africa to serve as his pleasure slave. All these are frightening prospects and they terrify me!
So many questions remain unanswered and so many troubling scenarios tumble around in the vortex of my fevered imagination that my mind spins. I am overcome with my panicky emotions and I am at breaking point. A loud, anguished cry strangles in my throat and gives way to silent, salty tears of fear and regret. Most of all, I cry for the freedom that I have lost.
Suddenly the door opens and my Master, Anwar enters the room.
Immediately, I prostrate myself on the floor and spread my limbs out in imitation of the St Andrew's cross. Anwar towers above me and I wait for his instructions. Slowly, he walks around my supine form and pauses several times to peruse my naked body; a body that now belongs to him.
The air is electric with our mutual expectation. I know he's about to summon me to pay him homage and I quickly rehearse what Hussein had taught me. Then Anwar clicks his fingers and commands me.
"Crawl to my feet slave, and pay to your Master the homage that is due to him!"
His voice is imperious! Gone is the warm, confidential manner he'd adopted with me as he feigned friendship for me. Now, his tone is cold and commanding and it instils fear in me. Instinctively, I know that I must obey and to do so quickly or pay the price of incurring his displeasure.
I scramble onto all fours and scuttle over to where he is standing. I lean forward and lower my head to kiss his feet three times and I tell him.
"Master, your slave prostrates himself before you! Master, your slave presents himself to you! Master, what would you have your slave do to serve and please you?"
As I utter the words the bile rises and scorches my throat. For the first time, I have called him "Master" and I have referred to myself as "your slave". How many times in the past have I fantasized about this? How many times have I longed to be in the position I now find myself forced to adopt? Far too numerous to count!
Bitterly, I recall how at our first meeting and within the silence of my mind, I'd craved to call him "Master".
But those things had been done by me because I'd wanted - no I needed - to do them; they'd been fantasies and not reality. They'd been done because they fed my erotic wet- dreams. Now I do them at his bidding because I must. There are no options open to me other than to obey this man who has made me his unwilling slave.
Once more Anwar circles me like a triumphant predator tormenting its wretched prey before the final, fateful lunge. Suddenly, I am convulsed by an uncontrollable shivering.
"Stand and display!"
Hurriedly, I leap to my feet and adopt the standing at full display pose. I remember what Hussein had taught me; I stand tall with my hands behind my head and I tighten my body so that my taut musculature is thrown into sharp relief and my genitals thrust forward in an obscene invitation to my Master to inspect them. Anwar reaches out and places his exploratory hands on my shoulders. They move to the firm, rounded balls of my biceps and he squeezes hard. Satisfied, he slides his hands down over my chest to my nipples.
At first, he plays with them as he uses his fingertips to gently tease the nubs into needle- point sharpness. Suddenly, his playfulness turns into spite as he cruelly pinches and twists my nipples. I yelp with the unexpectedness of this and angrily, my new Master slaps my face and admonishes me.
"Stand still, slave! How dare you move when your Master is inspecting his property?"
Without thinking, I hear myself apologizing.
"I'm sorry Master! Forgive me Master!"
In replying as I do, my survival instincts have taken over to prevent me from being punished. And it works. Anwar is gratified with my contriteness.
His hands move down over my belly to my hairless groin and he takes my balls in his hands. He tugs at them to test the elasticity of my scrotum and then he rolls each of them between his finger and his thumb. He compliments me.
"Very good, Matt! You have nice, plump balls and they will be appreciated by the buyers who inspect you. They'll certainly be one of your many favourable selling features."
At Anwar's mention of buyers and being sold, my emotions get the better of me and I break down and cry. Through my wild sobbing, I hear my heartfelt pleas to him not to sell me. I beg him to set me free and finally I tell him that.
"I'm not really a slave."
Cruelly, Anwar just laughs and tells me.
"But Matt, you are a slave! You have told me of your slave's nature on several occasions and confided in me your long held fantasies of serving an Arab Master. However, let me just say that I also recognized these features within you at our first meeting and I have worked assiduously since then to grant you your wish. I would have thought you'd be happy that I have done so."
"Master, I don't want to be a slave!"
"You think that now, Matt! But I assure you that this will change. It's the shock of your sudden and unexpected enslavement that clouds your judgement. Within time, you will come to acknowledge that to serve as a slave is your destiny. It is your birth right. Slavery for you is your natural condition. Accept that Matt and you'll be happy in your servitude. Reject it or fight it and you'll suffer for you intransigence. No Master will tolerate a difficult slave and you'll be punished for any trouble you cause."
"Please Master, set me free?"
"That's impossible, Matt! You were born to be a slave and a slave you will remain. Now shut up and let's not have any more nonsense about setting you free. That won't happen!"
The finality of Anwar's words does sink in. I now know nothing will save me. No amount of pleading from me will soften his attitude. Foolishly, I'd told him about my slave fantasies and he has taken me at my word and turned me into the slave of those wild, erotic imaginings. I am his slave - although his ownership of me is to be a brief one. Several days from now I will have a new, unknown master and an uncertain future. I think back to London and to Sven; suddenly his slavery is preferable to my own. Now I change my tactics and beg Anwar to take me back to London to serve as his slave.
Obviously, back in London, the opportunities for regaining my freedom would be greater than in the Middle-East or Africa. Suddenly, there is a glimmer of hope; all I have to do is to convince Anwar to keep me as his slave and take me back to London. Once there, escape should be easy.
"Master, take me back to London with you and allow me to serve as your slave alongside of Sven?"
"Slave, as appealing as that sounds to me it's not going to happen. I have no need for two slaves to serve me. For the moment, Sven meets all my needs most admirably and to introduce you into my household would be the cause of great disharmony. Two slaves, each competing for their Master's favour, is disruptive. It engenders jealousy between the slaves and causes the Master a great deal of worry. If I were to take you back to London, Sven would resent your presence and there would be bickering between the two of you and I would find myself adjudicating which of you is in the wrong and administering the appropriate punishment."
"Master, I promise to behave if you take me back to London with you. I won't cause any disruption and I will be on my best behaviour - I promise."
I hear my words tumbling out and I am both sickened and ashamed. How quickly I have accepted the mindset of a slave. Here I am pleading - no begging - with Anwar not to sell me and to take me with him when he returns to London. Yet, even as I beg, I know my pleas are falling on deaf ears. I have only to look at his face to know that he won't take me with him. He has steeled his heart and his mind to my plight. Nothing will save me from my fate.
Satisfied that my balls are sound, Anwar now takes hold of my cock and pulls it forward from my body. As he teases my piss-slit, he tells me.
"You are fortunate slave that you are circumcised. At least you are spared the excruciating pain of the skinning scalpel."
The very thought of circumcision appals me. I feel a sickening squirming in the pit of my stomach as my balls retract and my cock shrivels in my Master's hand. Anwar is amused at my involuntary reaction to his words and he laughs loudly.
"Does the thought of the cutter's blade frighten you, Matt? As it should! I have witnessed new slaves being skinned and it's not a pretty sight for the observer. But I imagine it's much worse for the luckless, new slave. Oh, how they beg and plead to be spared but all to no avail, of course. The pain they suffer is all too obvious and their cries of anguish are quite heartrending. It is hard to watch dispassionately and not to feel a small degree of sympathy for the unfortunate slave. But it is a necessary operation and there's no avoiding it, I'm afraid. And pain is a necessary and unavoidable part of a slave's lot; through his fear of pain, a slave learns to diligently serve his Master's needs. But let me continue with my inspection of you."
Anwar orders me to turn around with my back to him and I feel his hands resting upon my shoulders. He squeezes them hard as a test of their strength before they sweep down over the concave of my back to my ass. He grasps as ass-cheek in each hand and kneads them much as a baker kneads his dough.
"You are as impressive from the rear as you are from the front, slave. You possess wide shoulders that taper down to a narrow, trim waist and an ass that flares out into - what is that term you Westerners use to such good effect, ah, yes - 'a bubble-butt'. You do indeed possess a most beautiful bubble butt that promises true delight to its fortunate users. And I like the way your ass-cheeks sit astride the strong, muscular columns of your legs. Indeed you are a most beautiful slave and one who is assured to lift the spirits of the most jaded of masters."
The touch of his hands on my ass is electric; I know all this is just a prelude to his use of it. He slips a finger into my ass-crack and seeks out my anus. As his finger tickles and teases me he speaks - not so much to me but about me.
"Hussein has prepared you well for my use, Matt? It would seem that your ass is lubricated and ready to receive my impatient member. Is that not so, slave?"
"Yes Master!"
"Then let us begin! You may undress me slave."
In the confusion of my mind, I desperately look for an escape. But common sense and fear tell me there is to be no salvation for me. Anwar has enslaved me and I have no other recourse than to obey his command to undress him.
I think back to how Miguel had very recently removed my clothes and I adopt similar methods. Very carefully, I remove Anwar's jacket and carefully hang it in the cupboard provided for that purpose. I stand in front of my Master and momentarily hesitate unsure of my next move. Anwar instructs me.
"Unbutton my shirt and remove it!"
Shyly, I unbutton my Master's shirt and slide it off his shoulders until he stands stripped to the waist before me. Then, I drop to my knees and carefully remove his shoes and socks. Next, I unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly and ease his trousers down over his legs into a crumpled heap round his ankles and I help him to step out of them. Momentarily, the sharp intake of my breath causes me to hesitate; I am transfixed in wide-eyed astonishment by the massive, tent poling at the front of his undergarment. But a series of cuffs to my ears quickly regains my attention and gently, I slide the underpants down Anwar's legs to his feet and his hard erection springs free from its constricting confinement. Now, this man who has enslaved me stands before me as naked as I am.
But the similarity ends there! Anwar's hirsute body is that of a free man; my newly denuded one is the smooth, hairless body of a slave.
This is my first sighting of Anwar's naked body and it is truly a thing of beauty. How many times over the past few months have I longed to see him in all his naked glory, to reach out and to touch his warm, firm flesh and to feel the scorching heat of his powerful erection.
His musculature is clearly delineated and yet it lacks the unsightly bulk of the over-zealous fitness fanatic. As a gay man, I've always considered I am a connoisseur of the perfect male form and my Master doesn't disappoint me.
Anwar's body is that of a thirtyish, virile man of Middle-Eastern appearance with a strong, lithe body. His limbs, muscular chest and firm, flat stomach have a light covering of black hair. His prodigious genitalia, nestling in a thick forest of black, pubic hair stretching from thigh to thigh, are a darker hue to the rest of his body colour. Indeed his heavy balls hang down like two purplish-brown plums between his strong thighs. His handsome face, framed by a closely cropped, black beard, is dominated by dark, piercing eyes and what I now see as a cruel mouth.
With an assurance born of arrogance and vanity he towers over my crouching form. Anwar stands naked before me with all the self-assurance of a master completely in control of the situation. Of course, his culture decrees that a man will never appear nude in the company of free men especially if they are infidels. However as slaves are neither free nor men he doesn't have a problem with being naked in my presence. I am no longer free and in his eyes I am no longer a man. I am simply a Franj slave not worthy of a second thought.
Impatiently, he instructs me to.
"Hurry along, slave!"
Kneeling before Anwar, his cock is at my eye-level; indeed it pokes out at right-angles to his groin placing it just inches from my face. It has to be said that he is most generously endowed and, at a first glance, it appears that his cock is larger than my own. And like me, he is circumcised.
My face is just inches from my Master's groin and I can smell his musky masculinity. I am sorely tempted to take the initiative but being inexperienced in those matters that govern behaviour between Masters and their slaves, I am unsure of what is expected of me. As the seconds tick away, I wait for his instruction and my nervousness grows. What must I do?
Perhaps as his slave, I am expected to pay the spontaneous homage due to him as my Master. I recall the earlier kissing of his feet and lowering my head I kiss his bare feet three times and ask.
"Master, what would you have me do next?"
"I would have my slave continue!" He snaps at me and cuffs my ear, "Continue and be quick about it, slave!"
Somewhat chastened, I lean forward and kiss the head of Anwar's cock. Through my lips, I feel the slight tremor as his body stiffens. Is it my imagination or do I hear his soft moan of pleasure?
I grow bolder by the moment and my tongue searches for his balls. At the touch of my moist tongue, his body is convulsed by his trembling and his soft moaning grows even louder.
As I burrow my face into Master's groin, the coarseness of his pubic hair rasps against my face and I breathe in his manly scent, I take one of his balls into my mouth. Ever so gently I suckle each of his balls raising my Master to new levels of pleasure. He arches his back and cries out his approval of my actions.
"YES!!!! YES!!!!"
This encourages me to continue and I use the tip of my tongue to tease the hyper-sensitive underside of his cock with feather-touch gentleness. I am rewarded; Master grabs hold of my head and directs my mouth down over his glans.
I take my Master's cock into the warm, moist cavern of my mouth and as my throat muscles gradually relax, I endeavour to swallow it and elevate him to newer heights of ecstasy.
My emotions betray me. By rights, I should hate this man who has so cruelly abused my friendship to both betray and enslave me and who I must now call "Master".
Quite obviously, it's a measure of how slave-like I have always been and as I kneel before Anwar and pleasure him, my feelings are those almost akin to doglike affection. Is this the type of affection that a "real" slave feels for his master? Perhaps Anwar is correct about me when he said I was always destined to be a true chattel slave in service to a stern master?
I am living for the moment and temporarily my mind rids itself of all other distractions.
The test-room's silence is only disturbed by the sounds of our sex; the slicking of my rounded lips as they move piston-like up and down Master's hard erection and the moans of his mounting passion.
Anwar holds my head firmly between his hands and forces me to take more of him into the warm, moist embrace of my mouth. To steady myself, I reach behind him and take hold of a firm, rounded buttock in each hand. How good he feels to my eager touch!
My trembling hands trace out the curvaceous contours of my Master's ass and emboldened by his shuddering response, I probe a finger into the deep, warm recess of his ass-crack. Then I hesitate; am I overstepping the boundaries of the Master and slave relationship in doing this? Should I have waited for him to take the lead and remain slave passive and allow my Master to use my body? Had I transgressed and offended him? More frighteningly - will I be punished? I think back to my first visit to Anwar's home where I'd watched as he caned Sven. The thought that I can now be similarly caned terrifies me.
I pause in my exploration and wait for Anwar to admonish me. He remains silent and encouraged by this; I use my finger to excite the sensitive opening to his body.
I feel the delicious contractions as his cock fires off two or three warning shots and I taste his sweet man- essence in my mouth. My own cock throbs with impatient desire.
I look beyond Master to the rutting-couch and I know that soon he'll order me to lie upon its silken sheets as he claims me as his sex-slave.
Anwar's enslavement of me has brought me to this moment in time. True it's not a journey of my choosing and if I'm honest, its one I am reluctant to take it. But I sense, I am discovering new things about myself. Could it be that I am about to find my "true" inner self. Is Anwar to release the slave who resides in my erotic fantasies? Am I about to become the slave I'd always longed to be?
Is it possible that I am a slave not just in my mind but also in body? Do I possess a slave's nature? Yet I already know the answer is - yes I am!
Suddenly, Anwar pushes my head away from him leaving my mouth feeling strangely empty. He stoops and places a hand beneath my chin and uptilts my face so that we look into each other's eyes. Master smiles down at me and he strokes my cheeks. Shyly, I smile back at him. He tells me to stand and eager to please him, I quickly scramble to my feet.
Anwar runs his hands down over my chest and pauses to playfully tweak my nipples before they slide down over my belly to my cock. He takes it into his fisted hand and uses his thumb to tease and excite my piss-slit and in doing so, he reduces me to a quivering, mass of overstimulated nerve endings.
He leads me by my cock to the couch and instructs me to lie on it.
Anwar is now ready to claim his "slave property" rights over me and to fuck me. And I am now ready to surrender to him as his slave and to acknowledge him as my Master.
Master orders me to lie on my belly and I wait with tensed body and bated breath for his next move. Suddenly, I felt the cold stickiness of a lubricated finger preparing my asshole for his entry. Slowly and expertly, he works to relax me and stretch me. For several minutes, his slicked finger slides in and out of me as he eases away my tension. How good his finger feels and how easily I am giving in to its probing pleasure. Soon it is joined by a second finger and I feel myself being stretched open even wider. Anwar continues with his preparations until he is satisfied that I am ready. Then he tells me to.
"Lie on your back slave! Lift your legs and spread them wide. I want to watch your face as I fuck you."
My emotions are a heady mixture of fear and uncertainty; of eager anticipation and lascivious desire. How many times over the past few months - since meeting Anwar - have I lusted for this moment? Finally, it is here although not as I'd imagined it would be.
I do as I am told and I feel the head of Anwar's cock poking at my puckering hole; reaching out, I eagerly guide it into my willing body. As I relax, I feel him slowly enter into me. Anwar takes his time; he inserts his cock, inch by slow inch, into me and he pauses before each new thrust to allow time for my hole to adjust. Soon I experience a wonderful sense of fullness and I hear my sighs of contentment. I really do love the feel of my Master's long, thick, hard cock stuffing my ass.
Suddenly I am overwhelmed with the desire to please my Master and I begin to work the internal muscles of my sphincter to give him maximum pleasure. Slowly and deliberately, I work them drawing the invading prick further into my body and I use those same muscles to squeeze it in a "milking" action. He responds by gently thrusting in and out of my hard- working asshole; gradually, he quickens the pace of his thrusting and soon we are lost in a world of common lust; oblivious to all around us.
Our exertions cause our naked bodies to glisten erotically with our sex induced sweating and this adds to the intoxicating atmosphere of the room. The air is heavy with the scent of our sex and the silence is broken by our mutual moaning, the slurping of Anwar's cock as it pistons in and out of my ass and the loud "slap-slap" of his balls hitting against my body.
Now, Anwar quickens his pace and begins to thrust even faster and deeper into me. As my Master lunges into my ass, I try to assist him by raising my buttocks to meet the downward thrust of his cock and partially pulling back as it begins its withdrawal.
I can't begin to describe the sensations enveloping me. As Anwar's cock continues to ream me, every single nerve in my body is sending a message of pleasure to my brain; the cock's constant, hard pounding of my prostate has me shouting out. I am learning that this is the happiness that a master always brings to his willing slave.
Suddenly, Master's ecstatic roar announces his impending climax. Simultaneously, we both erupt into violent ejaculations with each of us pumping out our pent-up emotions. For what seems an eternity, we both continue to come; Anwar into my body and me onto my chest and into the concave saucer of my own belly.
Now, weak from his exertions, Anwar falls forward and lies on my sweat soaked, come coated chest. He is breathing hard and I feel the slowing beat of his heart. I luxuriate in the warmth and feel of my Master's body resting on mine and as our nipples touch, I experience little jolts of electricity- like pleasure surging through me. We are oblivious to time and we are content to just "rest".
At last, our breathing has slowed down and our heartbeats have returned to normal. Anwar withdraws his now diminished cock from within me and I am left feeling strangely empty. Spontaneously and humbly I ask for my Master's permission to clean him. Inexplicably, it seems right for me to do so.
Graciously Master consents to my request!
Master leads the way into the adjacent bathroom and waits impatiently for me to prepare the shower. When the water is at the right temperature, he joins me under the shower and I wash his body. Suddenly, this has become a labour of love as my soap-slicked hands move sensually over his body.
But Master is impatient and tells me.
"Hurry it along slave! We don't have all day and there is one more task that must be done before you are placed in the holding pens."
Master doesn't elaborate and I am left wondering about the "one more task".
I dry Master with a soft, white bath-towel and then look to dry my own body. I am about to use the same towel I'd used on Anwar. Suddenly, in an explosion of anger, he delivers a violent blow to the side of my head and unprepared for this; I stumble and fall to the floor. Master kicks my ass with a bare foot and orders me to my feet. Frightened by his anger, I scramble to my feet and assume the display position. I'd assumed the position without thinking; it had been a reflex action and I am amazed at how easily I am adjusting to being an obedient slave after just a few short hours.
"How dare you, slave! How dare you demean your Master by soiling his towel on your unclean carcass?"
Anwar's anger in palpable; I tremble before the onslaught of his abuse. I'd used the towel without thinking - I'm still to learn that a slave never anticipates - and I'd meant no disrespect. I'd simply thought it was better to dry myself with the same towel that I'd used on Master rather than use another. Crestfallen, I apologize for my indiscretion and hope that I'll not be punished.
"Please Master! I am sorry and I meant no disrespect to you." Tears brim in my eyes as I beg for Anwar's forgiveness. "Master, forgive me, please? I don't know what I must do."
My contriteness seems to work; Anwar's anger subsides as quickly as it had erupted. I am to learn that Arabs, when dealing with their slaves, have mercurial natures that change constantly. This has the effect of keeping a slave on "his toes" and in a heightened start of fear. This helps to make him a better slave. Ever fearful of his Master's anger, the slave tries that much harder to constantly please.
"Slave, I'll overlook you lapse this time. However, you must learn and learn quickly those things that displease your Master and to avoid them. Normally, I'd have you tied to a bench and have your ass strapped for such a breach of respect. Consider yourself fortunate to have such an understanding Master."
"Thank you Master. I thank you for your understanding."
"Slave, you continue to displease me. Your use of the personal pronoun when referring to yourself is an affront to my dignity. You are no longer a free person. The proper form is to refer to yourself as - 'slave' whenever you are in the presence of your Master or other free men."
"Your slave is sorry, Master. Your slave has so much to learn, Master."
The words choke in my mouth and the bile rises in my throat as I obey this man who until a few hours ago, I'd considered as a friend. Once more my sense of betrayal is palpable but my fear of him is greater.
"Indeed he does and so little time to learn it. No doubt your new master will have his own expectations on how you are to behave. That will be part of his training of you. Slave, you'll do well to listen to your new owner's instructions and to obey them without question. Do this and your transition into slavery will be easier for you."
"Thank you. Master! Your slave thanks you for your advice."
"And now slave it is time for me to re-join my friends. Slave, you may dress me."
I carefully dress my Master and work the reverse order I'd used to undress him. Fearing his displeasure, I work quickly and silently and when he is fully clothed, he examines is image in the full-length mirror attached to the wall. I anxiously await his approval or his admonition. But all seems well and wordlessly, he takes hold of my cock and cock-leads me from the room and along the corridor back to the inner courtyard where, Malik, Mustapha and Hussein wait for his return.
As we enter, the three Arabs stop talking and watch as Anwar leads me to the table where they are sitting. Miguel and the second slave both break from the modified position and wordlessly step forward to serve my Master. Miguel places a chair at the table for Anwar's use and the second slave offers him refreshments of cool sherbet and honeyed figs. Then they resume their positions alongside their Master and his guests.
Anwar instructs me to join them.
"Slave, take your place by the other slaves."
As I hasten to obey, I am acutely aware that all four Arabs are watching me closely. Then Anwar further orders me to.
"Assume the full display position, slave!"
Miguel and the other slave stand with their feet apart with their clasped hands resting on their asses. I, on the other hand stand at the full display position with my feet apart, my fingers entwined behind my head, my body stretched taut and my hips obscenely thrust forward. There is also one further difference between my fellow slaves and me - I am completely nude whereas they are clothed. Well at least, they are partially covered by their loin-cloths. I am acutely aware of my position as the only completed naked person in the room. I feel four pairs of Arab eyes appraising my nude body and embarrassingly, my semi- aroused cock begins a nervous twitching. Malik is the first to speak.
"How charming, Anwar! Your slave's cock seems to have a mind of its own. Its twitching is most beguiling and will, most certainly, delight the buyers, I'm sure. But tell me Anwar, is the slave a good fuck? I'm sure my buyers will be most interested to hear of his capacity to please them sexually."
"I have no complaints with the slave's performance, Malik. Quite the contrary; his performance was exemplary. He possesses an exquisitely tight ass and powerful muscles that draw your cock deep into him. He was, in every sense, a most delightful and satisfaction fuck."
"Anwar, my old friend, as you know I rate my livestock before placing them before the buyers and I work on a scale of one to five stars. How many stars would you give for your slave's performances?"
"Three and a half stars, Malik. I'd give my slave three and a half stars."
"You'd only give him three and a half stars? You surprise me Anwar. I'd have thought you'd rate him as highly as four and a half stars?"
"No, not quite yet, Malik. He's not ready for a four and a half star rating. Let's not forget that he is a very new slave and as yet he is untrained and he is unsure of his new role. But I have no doubt with the proper training he'll soon qualify."
"Do you see him attaining five stars eventually, Anwar?"
"No, Malik! I would never give a five star rating to any one of my slaves. To do so implies that the slave has reached a state of perfection and has nothing more to learn from me. To my mind, a slave never stops learning from his master and so he never reaches a state of perfection. In time, Matt will qualify for four and a half stars but never for five. That at least is my position."
"You make an interesting point about a slave never ceasing to learn. I must agree with you on that, my old friend. Nevertheless, I will give your slave a five star rating for the benefit of the buyers. And let's be frank, Anwar, your slave does has the appearance of a five star offering."
"Indeed he does, Malik and I will leave that to you! You must do whatever you consider to be the most appropriate. Will you display my slave before Saturday's auction?"
"Most certainly, I will, Anwar! I have already set the wheels in motion. While you were away with your slave, I took the opportunity to contact two of my most important buyers. I described your slave to them and both of them are most enthusiastic. They want to view him and perhaps give him a test-run."
"Do I know these clients, Malik?"
"I would doubt you'd know one of them, Anwar. He is an influential, West African, oil company executive named Ahmedu Hadi. His father is an emir and he is obscenely wealthy. He is an enthusiastic buyer of my slaves and I should think by this he has a sizeable collection of beautiful, young, white, male slaves. He has a predilection for blond, blue-eyed males such as your slave. Over the past couple of years, he has purchased several just like Matt and I have to say, he spared no expense in procuring them."
"And who is the other buyer, Malik? Is he also an African?"
"No Anwar but his name should be known to you. You might even know him personally."
"Who is he, Malik?"
"He's a minor member of the ruling al-Bahr family - Prince Omar."
"Indeed, I have met the old lecher and it's as you say - he is a very minor princeling of the ruling family." My Master sneers. "I'm surprised that he's interested in buying a male slave. He is too old and corpulent and rumour has it that his royal member can no longer rise to the occasion. One can only wonder at what debauched uses he puts his slaves to."
"Obviously you have heard THOSE rumours about him too, Anwar. But, of course, we must be discreet in conjecturing about a member of the ruling family - even a very junior one. However, he is a frequent visitor to my humble premises and he does buy the most comely slaves on offer- and spares no expense in doing so. But I have noticed that his turnover of slaves is high and like you I do wonder to what uses he puts them."
This conversation leaves me appalled and apprehensive. Obviously, two, awful prospects now confront me and I have no control over either. The powerlessness of my situation is very evident.
On the one hand, I could be bought by an African billionaire and taken to somewhere in Africa to spend my days as his servant and my nights as his pleasure slave. Or, alternatively, I could be sold to an elderly, Arab prince and used for unknown purposes that Anwar darkly hints at in his description of Prince Omar as lecherous, impotent and debauched.
And frighteningly, I am to be examined by both men tomorrow at private viewings. As I worry about these awful prospects, the two overseers who'd processed me into my slavery enter and tell Malik.
"We're ready, whenever you are Malik!"
Ready for what I wonder! And Anwar had said one more task needed doing.
"Excellent! Then let's not waste any more time. Let's get this finished and then the slave can be placed in the pens with Mustapha's six slaves. Come Anwar. Come Mustapha and Hussein."
Then turning to the overseers, he instructs them to.
"Bring the slave along! Hussein perhaps you could assist?"
Rough hands seize hold of my shoulders; my two handlers are powerfully built and I am no match for their combined strength. As they haul me bodily from the courtyard and unceremoniously bundle me down a passageway, I'm aware that my Master, Malik and Mustapha trail behind watching my futile efforts at resistance.
Hussein opens a door into a room similar to the one where, just a short while ago I'd been processed as a new slave. As I am dragged through the open door, I gaze apprehensively around at the room's interior. I wonder about its purpose and why I have been brought here.
What I see puzzles me. Standing in the centre of the room is a long wooden bench approximately waist high and even as I watch I can see it is being prepared for me. The second overseer is carefully adjusting chains at either end of the bench and nearby, a slave is tending a brazier. The slave is vigorously pumping a set of bellows to keep the coals in the brazier glowing with red hot intensity. And protruding ominously from the brazier is a long handle. Suddenly, the awful truth dawns on me; with sickening clarity, I recognise it as a branding iron. I know then that I am to receive the ultimate, shameful badge of slavery. I am to be branded.
Hussein and the overseer hold me and begin to drag me towards the waiting branding table. Panic-stricken I struggle against them and I hear my disembodied cries of protest.
"Let me go! No! No! I don't want to be branded. Anwar please don't do this. Let me go, please?"
My entreaties fall on deaf ears and are greeting with loud laughter and jeers from my Arab captors.
Effortlessly, my handlers lift me high and belly flop me onto the table with such force that I am temporarily winded as they tie me down, ass up, for my branding.
Sobbing wildly, I desperately continue to plead for mercy and even as I beg I know I'll be ignored.
"Please Master! Please have mercy, please!"
"Your slave doesn't disappoint, Anwar!" Mustapha laughingly comments. "Hear how loudly he pleads to be spared the branding iron. These foolish Franj can never understand that their brandings are inevitable and that they plead in vain for our mercy and compassion. Don't they realize that we can't extend either mercy or compassion to a slave?"
"Behold the delicious sight of the bulging and flexing of the slave's muscles as he struggles vainly against the shackles holding him down on the table." Malik adds. "Note the futile heaving of his curvaceous ass as he fights to delay the branding iron. Look at how the slave's body glistens from his fear-induced sweating. Is there are a more satisfying sight than to watch as a new Franj slave is branded and initiated into slavery?"
My struggles are indeed futile and I feel the tightening of the chains as they are fastened around my wrists and ankles securing me to the bench and immobilising my body. My body is stretched out tautly along the length of the bench top and my movements are now restricted to the nervous, quivering of my muscles, the panicky heaving of my chest as I gulp for air and the almost explosive beating of my heart. I turn my head towards the brazier and my eyes widen with terror as I see an Arab overseer pull the cruel iron from its fiery bed of hot coals. My body is racked with sobs as I see the red glowing symbol for "slave" at the end of the long-handled brand. My vision and all my thoughts are centred on that branding iron.
I wait with bated breath and try to brace myself for what my beleaguered body tells me will be unimaginable pain.
They say when a man is drowning his whole life flashes before him in a matter of seconds. It is much the same for me as I wait on the branding iron. I think back over the years and all the erotic fantasies that had fuelled my imagination and given me so much pleasure. I've lost count of all those times when I'd imagined being branded by a fictitious Arab master. Always, those moments had been highly charged ones for me when I'd experienced the hardest erections and the most intense ejaculations. But this isn't so today. My fantasies have turned into a hideous nightmare; my imminent branding isn't make belief or the workings of my over-stimulated erotic desires. It is for real and I am left with a limp dick.
One of the overseers asks Hussein to assist in holding me steady me for the iron.
"Hussein, could you hold him steady! Would you press down on his ass, please?"
I feel Hussein's firm hand pressing down on my ass to prevent me wriggling or squirming and I know my branding is imminent. As I wait on the other Arab, I'm suspended in a limbo of dreadful expectation of waiting for the hot iron to sear itself into me and to feel the agonising pain as it does so. Frantically, in an effort to delay my branding, I start to struggle against the hard, unyielding bench. Futilely, I begin to thrust my ass upwards and to flex my muscles as I try to break free of the chains holding me securely in place. However, Hussein's steadying hand holds me firmly in place. I am both trapped and helpless!
How long do I wait?
Time stands still and each second seems an interminably long-time. My heart pounds, my laboured breathing quickens and I am lathered in a fear induced sweat. With the approach of the red-hot, branding iron, I begin to cry and beg Anwar not to brand me. Once more my pleas are met with cold indifference and they are ignored. As the glowing end of the iron touches my left buttock, there is a momentary silence broken only by a sizzling sound and the sickening smell of my burning flesh as the Arab touches me with his cruel iron.
Momentarily, I feel nothing and then my nervous system explodes into violent activity as it carries the signals of my pain to my brain. I hear my own high pitched shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain throughout my body. The intensity of my suffering is unbearable and my loud sobbing adds to my misery. And intruding into this suffering is the thought that I'm now a branded slave.
Mercifully, my branding is now over. However, the memory will stay with me throughout the remainder of my life and it will remind daily that I am a slave and an owned property.
The branding completed, Anwar walks over to the branding table and comments most favourably about the "S" for slave now burned permanently into my body. Eventually, I'll learn the "S" brand is a universal and a generally accepted requirement for all slaves. Most slave dealers use the basic capital letter "S" to mark their slaves. However, Malik views this as ugly and has personally chosen to use a more ornate letter "S" based on some medieval, European manuscript.
Given the five star quality of his slaves, Malik feels a more ornate brand is warranted to distinguish his prime slaves from the run-of-the-mill stock of some other dealers.
Anwar runs his hands almost lovingly over my sweat-sodden back before he pats my ass in much the same way as one does with a pony or a horse that has pleased its rider. He instructs the overseers to unfasten me and no time is wasted in unchaining me from the table. However, once on my feet, my strength fails me and my knees sag as I am half carried and half-dragged in the powerful grip of the two overseers further into the inner recesses of Malik's slave-holding pens.
I am too traumatized and in too much pain to take any notice of my surroundings. Vaguely, I'm aware that I'm being dragged along a walkway between two rows of cells each enclosed behind floor to ceiling, stout, iron bars.
Through my pain-clouded eyes, I see each cell holds a number of young, naked, white men. Roused from their lethargy, they crowd to the front of their cells and peer out through the bars to watch my arrival which no doubt helps to relieve the monotony of their incarceration. The thought flashes through my mind that these are now my brothers in misfortune and like me, they destined to spend the rest of their days as chattel slaves.
Despite my limited visual comprehension, my sense of smell is assailed by the overpowering stench of slavery. All around me, I smell the awful stink of sweat, vomit, urine and human ordure. I am reminded of a cattle barn or a horse stable and like them these slave-pens have their own distinctive odour. The smell of human misery envelops me and fouls the very air that I breathe.
Over the course of the next three days, I will learn that sanitation in the slave-pens is most rudimentary and consists of open drains running through the cells and which are flushed out by hoses twice a day. This isn't done out of consideration for the cells' occupants; rather it has more to do with the sensibilities of those privileged buyers who come to inspect the slaves prior to their sales. The slaves aren't afforded any dignity or given any privacy in performing the most basic of their human, bodily functions. They simply squat, straddled- legged, over the drains and relieve themselves in full view of their fellow-slaves, the overseers or any buyers who are present.
Malik unlocks a door into a pen and I'm thrust roughly through the door to join Mustapha's six slaves who are to be sold with me on Saturday.
Exhausted and traumatised, I collapse to the straw-strewn floor of the pen where I'm left to recover and to rest in preparation for tomorrow's horrors.
To be continued....
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