Mandrasat

MANDRASAT

Book One: My Name Is Shareem

(cont'd)

Chapter Two: "A Prequel: December 15, 2001"

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen." The PA crackled to life over the hubbub of passengers chatting among themselves, moving up and down the aisles, and squeezing luggage into overhead compartments. "Welcome aboard Pan Emirate Airways flight Zero-Zero-One, non-stop service from London's Heathrow Airport to Abu Dhabi with continuing service to Delhi, Bangkok, and Hong Kong."

The cabin attendant's voice was sultry, faintly accented, and professionally soothing. "The captain has informed us," she continued, "that we will depart on time at 0700, arriving in Abu Dhabi at 1830 hours local time. We are expecting a full flight this morning, so we ask that all carry-on luggage be stored in the overhead compartments or under the seat in front of you. If you need any assistance, please press the call button located in your arm rest. Thank you." She repeated the message in Arabic.

Bret always enjoyed the last minute hustle-and-bustle of these pre-takeoff activities, even on unbearably early morning flights like this one, the half dozen languages being spoken around him, the flight attendants maneuvering through the confusion of milling passengers, call button chimes reverberating throughout the cabin, all very exciting. He felt that the seven and a half hour flight would afford him time for a reasonably restful sleep. He'd arrived at Heathrow at 5:25am, having departed Paddington Station at five-ten, having gotten up at a quarter to four, wondering why in God's name he had even bothered going to bed the night before. He'd arranged for a taxi to pick him up at his hotel in Bayswater for the two minute ride to Paddington, as he had no intention of trudging up Praed Street in the bitter cold of this dark winter morning. He knew he was over-tipping the driver, but felt it somehow made up for such a short trip at such an unholy hour.

As he had expected, the airline terminal was packed, and it took him the better part of an hour to get through check-in and close to half an hour to get through security. He arrived at the gate just as the boarding process was ending, and once onboard, he breathed a sigh of sincere relief as he sank into his seat.

Bret had learned long ago that the engineers who design the seating configurations on modern jetliners are not overly concerned about six foot four inch frames like his, so, resigned to feeling cramped, he sat wedged against the seat in front of him and waited for the final announcements and flight attendant cross check preceding take-off.

Since the two adjacent seats between him and the window were still unoccupied, and desperately hoping they would remain so for the long flight, he decided to wait for two possibly late arrivals to get settled before buckling his own seat belt. He checked out the contents of the seat pocket in front of him and found the airline magazine, a barf bag, and an inflight duty-free catalogue.

He had just begun leafing through the magazine when one of the cabin stewards, a dark, strikingly handsome young Arab, approached his seat, bent down and asked, "Mr. Hauser, would you mind terribly changing seats so that a family of three might occupy this row?"

Surprised that the steward knew his name, he stood up and responded, "Of course. No problem at all."

The man's jet black eyes, framed as they were by the rich caramel shading of his skin captivated Bret's attention. He had always seen himself as hiking boots, flannel shirt, backpack, backwoods good-looking, but even to his way of thinking, this steward looked as though he'd been finely sculpted from warm honey colored amber by Michelangelo himself. The name on the steward's silver ID badge was `Tariq.'

Maybe sensing Bret's thoughts, or merely responding to his willingness to exchange seats, the steward rewarded him with a spectacular smile and said, "Thank you, Mr. Houser."

His curiosity piqued, Bret asked, "How did you know my name?"

"From the passenger manifest," Tariq answered with a smile that sent an unexpected chill deep into Bret's guts; he then retrieved Bret's backpack from the overhead compartment and led the way up the aisle and into first class.

"We appreciate very much your willingness to allow that family to take the entire row," the steward said in a clipped and faintly accented voice as he led Bret to the front of the compartment.

"Believe me," Bret responded, wide-eyed and impressed with the quiet elegance of this practically empty first class cabin, "It's I who appreciate your generosity." This would be his first experience at this level of travel, and even though he would never dream of spending the kind of money it would take to fly first class, he was nevertheless delighted at the prospect of having it thrust upon him.

He did however regret that he hadn't had the time or taken the time to shave off close to the week's growth of facial hair he sprouted, and he suddenly realized his excessively casual and rumpled clothes and his mod, deliberately disheveled hair style were definitely not the norm for this cabin, but still, here he was, being led into first class, wild hair, overgrown beard, and all.

At the second row from the front, the steward turned, smiled at Bret again, then bent down and whispered a few words in Arabic to the middle-eastern gentleman who occupied the aisle seat. The man turned to look at Bret, nodded, smiled, got out of his seat, bowed and said, "Would you care for the aisle seat or the window?"

"Please," Bret answered, "I'll take whichever one you don't want."

"In that case...," the man said motioning toward the window and stepping back to allow Bret to pass in front of him.

`This is great, " Bret thought, "plenty of room, and no need to scrunch over."

After he'd gotten settled and had buckled his seat belt, he turned to his row mate, and said smiling, "Thanks for letting me take this seat next to you."

"I understand from the steward," the man said with a deep voice and pronounced accent, "that you gladly surrendered your seat to accommodate a small family. That was very gracious of you."

Bret felt a blush of embarrassment rise up his neck and spread over his face.

The man smiled warmly at Bret's obvious self-consciousness. "I hope I didn't embarrass you because of your kind gesture. That was never my intent."

"Oh, of course not," Bret returned the man's smile, but the edges of his cheeks still burned.

"And what takes you to Abu Dhabi this morning?" The man asked pleasantly.

"Business or pleasure?"

"Actually," Bret responded, "I'm continuing on to Delhi."

"Ah, yes, Delhi; and what business are you in if I may ask?"

Brent's hesitancy allowed the gentleman at his elbow time to raise his hand and say, "Again I apologize; I certainly do no wish to pry into your affairs."

"Not at all," Bret replied, "I'm not really in business as such. Actually, I `ve just recently become a Catholic priest, and I guess I'm not used to introducing myself that way yet."

"Well, my friend," the man said, his eyes widening in astonishment, "of all the occupations you could have identified as yours, the last one I would have expected you to say was Catholic priest. Has no one yet told you," he said with humor and a wave of his hand, "that you are much too young and much too handsome to spend the rest of your life as a priest? You should be a Hollywood movie star, or a cowboy."

Bret laughed wholeheartedly, but felt the blush of embarrassment flaming once more over his face."

"I did it again, did I not?" the man chuckled. "Embarrassed you. I do apologize. My name is Shareem."

"I'm Bret Hauser, and I'm pleased to meet you." The man did not extend his hand to receive Bret's, so he judged that shaking hands was probably not proper protocol in his culture, but his warm smile and friendly manner belayed any doubt in Bret's mind that he had inadvertently committed a faux pas.

"And I was serious when I said you were too young and too good looking to spend the rest of your life locked away as a Catholic priest."

"Well," Bret grinned, "I guess you could say I'm a little young to be ordained." Catching Shareem's quizzical look, he quickly added, " `Ordained' is what the Church calls making someone a priest. Usually we're ordained around 26, but I'd been in school for so long, that I guess they figured I knew everything I needed to know. I'm just about half way between twenty-three and twenty-four. "

Shareem nodded and asked how long Bret had been a priest.

"Counting today," he laughed, "two weeks. My class was ordained at St. Peter's in Rome on December First."

"I hope you do not mind my asking these questions," Shareem said, "but I have never had the opportunity to speak with a Catholic priest before."

"Not at all. I'm still not used to it myself."

"How shall I address you?" Shareem asked.

"Please, Mr. Shareem. Call me Bret. I think it's going to take me a long time to get used to using my official' title." He made the quotation marks gesture with his fingers at the word official.'

Shareem smiled knowingly. "You said you had been studying for a long time. Why was that?"

"I didn't have anything else to do," Bret answered with an amused shrug.

At that moment, Tariq, the cabin steward, approached them and asked if they would care for something to drink before take-off.

"Yes," Shareem answered. "I will have some mineral water."

"Sounds good," Bret agreed looking up. "I'll have the same."

The steward paused for a moment, making eye contact with Bret before turning and heading toward the galley for their drinks. In that brief second, Bret caught his breath and felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach, akin to a feeling of excitement or anticipation, or fear.

"Now there's a fellow who should be in Hollywood," Bret whispered. "He has got to be one of the best looking guys I've seen in a long time."

"You find the steward handsome?" A raised eyebrow accompanied Shareem's question.

"Oh, absolutely," Bret continued unaware of Shareem's curious facial expression. "That guy could make a fortune in the movies or on a soap."

"Perhaps," Shareem smiled. "Maybe one day his travels will take him to Hollywood. Now, Bret, you were going to tell me about your education to be a Catholic priest. You said you had nothing else to do but study. That is a strange thing to say."

"I guess it does sound kind of funny, but, you see I was raised by a maiden aunt; she was my only family and really heavy into education. She was obsessed with sending me to the best private schools back home in the US and in Europe, and as far back as I can remember, she hired all kinds of tutors and coaches for me, so I was always a couple of years ahead of my age group; when they were in sixth grade, I was in tenth, and so on."

"That must have made you feel proud. Ah, here is our mineral water, " Shareem commented as Tariq approached. He took the glasses from Tariq and passed one to Bret, then said to the steward, "You should hear what this young man has to say about you." Bret felt his cheeks flame once again and his stomach muscles tighten as the steward turned his head and looked directly into his eyes. "It is his considered opinion," Shareem continued dramatically, "that you are handsome enough to make a fortune as a Hollywood movie star."

Bret felt his entire body blush and sweat glistened on his forehead and around his mouth. He smiled, embarrassed, glancing away from the steward's gaze and looking intently into his glass of iced mineral water.

The steward chuckled and bowed his head slightly in Bret's direction, acknowledging the compliment. "I think Mr. Hauser himself would do very well in that arena," he smiled, nodded again, and returned to the galley.

"Ah!" Shareem sighed apologetically, "I have embarrassed you yet again. Please forgive me and do continue with your story," he said and began sipping his mineral water.

"OK. Well it really wasn't a bed of roses for me. I was a gawky kid; you know, a bean pole, all elbows and sharp angles, and pretty much the prize geek, always getting picked on or beat up. Typical private school stuff."

Shareem nodded sympathetically, "You should have experienced the hell of the English public school system as I did; it is no wonder they are a race of paranoid schizophrenics."

Bret laughed out loud. "There's always a hell worse than the one you're in, I guess. Well to make a really long and boring story on that point as short as possible, I got into early adolescent body building out of a sense of self-preservation, plus I did a lot of running and swimming."

"Those are all highly individual pastimes," Shareem observed thoughtfully. "Were you old enough to realize that at the time?"

"I guess I always preferred my own company," Bret answered, "and besides, I wasn't too interested in becoming friends with the guys who'd been persecuting me. I just wanted them think I could mop up the floor with them."

"And," Shareem asked, "did you? Mop up the floor with them?"

"A couple of times," he grinned. "I guess that's when becoming a priest started looking good to me. It's sort of a highly individual occupation. My aunt had just passed away, so I was on my own, and I finally picked up her passion for learning. I figured if you're going into academics and scholarship, there's no place like the Catholic Church.

"Anyway, I graduated from high school at 15, from college at 18; went into the seminary and completed basic theology at 21, and finished my masters last summer. That's when the powers that be decided it would be OK to ordain me a priest."

"I find it amazing, Bret, that over the short span of your life, you acquired not only all that education but maintained your body in such an obvious state of fitness as well."

"Thank you, Mr. Shareem. I appreciate that very much."

"But what do you do for enjoyment?" Shareem asked.

"As I said, running and swimming, scuba diving, too; cross-country skiing when I get a chance, but," he continued emphasizing his words enthusiastically, "I really like competing in triathlons. I've been doing that since I was eighteen, and I try to enter at least one a year. I love running and I've done the Rome Marathon and Barcelona Marathon for the past four years, and," he chuckled, "I like to keep up with the latest video games, and that's about all I've had time for."

"And that sounds like more than enough to keep anyone busy," Shareem remarked, "especially training for those triathlons and marathons. That must take an enormous amount of time."

The steward approached Shareem again, bowed and said, "Master Shareem, we will be preparing for take-off in a very few moments."

"Thank you, Tariq." He turned and said to Bret, "If you will excuse me, Bret. I have a few phone calls to make before we take-off," then reaching into the seat pocket in front of him, he retrieved a cell phone and began punching in numbers.

Bret wondered about the steward's form of address, 'Master Shareem.' "That's a pretty formal sign of respect," he thought. "He must be a VIP in Abu Dhabi or Riyadh, maybe even a member of a royal family." Bret continued sipping his mineral water as Shareem spoke softly in Arabic into his phone and began absent-mindedly appraising him. His row mate was well dressed, obviously a man of flawless and very expensive taste.

Bret guessed he had a military background because he sensed that kind of presence he'd seen in the officers from his own days in military school. He was tall and slim, and his suit was cut to show off his own well developed physique; obviously he was no stranger to physical training; he was probably in his early forties, not really a handsome man, but ruggedly attractive, dark olive skin, deep black eyes, black and gray hair cut short; in a word, a well groomed and physically impressive individual.

After a few moments, Shareem snapped the cell phone shut, dropped it back into the seat pocket, smiled at Bret, raised his glass in a toast, and downed the contents. "Ah," he sighed, "I'm anxious to get started."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," again that enchanting and sultry voice flowed out of the PA, "the cabin door has been closed and we will shortly be backing away from the gate. Please be sure your seat belts are securely fastened and your tray tables are in their upright and locked position." As the announcement switched into Arabic, the plane separated from the jetway, rocked gently, like a cork bobbing in a pond, and began moving back from the gate.

"The adventure begins," Bret thought.

-0-

Shortly after Flight Zero-Zero-One reached its cruising altitude of thirty-seven thousand feet, the pilot came on the PA, introduced himself and indicated that he expected a smooth and comfortable flight, with arrival in Abu Dhabi on time if not a few minutes early. He outlined the flight plan which would take them across central France and northern Italy, down the Baltic coast and Greek peninsula, across the Mediterranean, over Egypt and Saudi Arabia, on to the United Arab Emirates and into Abu Dhabi. He then assured the passengers that their comfort was the flight crew's paramount concern, and to be sure to ask for anything they needed. The flight attendant with the mellifluous voice repeated the pilot's words in Arabic.

Tariq had apparently adopted Shareem and Bret as his personal guests. He brought Shareem a fresh glass of mineral water, and, at Shareem's insistence, a glass of Cliquot Club Veuve for Bret "To celebrate his ordination at St. Peter's in Rome."

After a few sips of champagne, Bret took a set of earphones out of the seat pocket, removed them from their plastic envelope, put them on, plugged them in, and began accessing the audio channels displayed on his armrest. Having found a selection he liked, he fully reclined his seat, discovering as he did, its retractable footrest, enabling him to stretch out full length, which he luxuriated in doing. He closed his eyes and was quickly drifting between sleep and semi-consciousness.

Shareem pulled a briefcase from under the seat in front of him, removed some papers, put the case back on the floor, and began making notations in the margins of the papers, glancing occasionally at his sleeping companion. What he saw was a singularly attractive, fair skinned, dark haired young man, disheveled and unshaven, but with sharp, well defined facial features, a square jaw, cleft chin, high cheek bones, firm, straight mouth. He judged him to be three, but, more than likely, four inches taller than he, slim at probably a hundred and eighty pounds, as he would expect a marathon runner to be.

Shareem's quick assessment of Bret's physical features brought forth a grunt of satisfaction as he continued working at his notes.

One hour of flight eased into two, and the only sound in the first class compartment was the murmur of the massive jet engines on either side of the plane's fuselage. Tariq came and knelt on one knee at Shareem's feet.

"What have you discovered," Shareem whispered to the steward in their native tongue.

Tariq, responding also in Arabic, said, "This one was made a Christian priest two weeks ago in Rome. He has a visa to enter India as a student which must be renewed every three years. It will take time to discover what connections he may have in America"

"I see no reason to doubt what he told me about having no connections where he came from," Shareem commented, "but have it investigated anyway," then frowning intently, he asked, "Have you made arrangements at Qassir?"

"Yes, Master. In three hours, as we are about to pass out of Saudi airspace, and on your command, the pilot will announce an unscheduled emergency landing at an unnamed military base in Qassir, and once we are on the ground, you will find that Colonel Mustafa has everything waiting for you. After the slave has been separated from the other passengers, a team of the colonel's troops will effect the capture."

"I will interview him further to make sure no obstacles are in the way, but I feel strongly we can take him with little or not risk. He is, however, strong, Tariq," Shareem continued, "and may well struggle against Mustafa's troops, so to avoid any possibility of permanent injury, I want the Colonel's strongest and most proficient guards to seize him."

"I will see to their selection personally," Tariq affirmed

"Excellent," Shareem nodded and continued, "I have been making some notes here on how best to deal with this new slave of mine after we transport him to Mandrasat."

"What have you in mind, Master?" Tariq whispered.

"The first thing I would want done immediately upon our arrival, is to have the veterinarians give him a thorough physical examination, inside and out, all over, including blood and all bodily fluids. I want his reflexes tested, and I want his body and every part of his body measured accurately."

"Yes, Master Shareem," Tariq responded. "He appears in perfect health, but precautions are always well advised. What other plans have you for him?"

"When he was freely telling me his life story, he mentioned that he likes to run ten or twelve, sometimes even fifteen miles a day. He claims to accomplish this in two hours, or less. If true, such a feat should be no problem for our Nubian slaves, should it?"

"Not at all," Tariq responded. "I am sure they could run twice that distance with no difficulty."

"Good." Shareem said, continuing to write in his notes. "Then we will have three Nubians run with him every morning, carrying whips of knotted cords to urge him on, and one overseer on horseback with a whip of his own to make sure the Nubians do not apply theirs too enthusiastically to my new slave's naked buttocks."

Tariq chuckled softly and said, "If it is agreeable with you, Master, in addition to his daily runs, shall we also have him spend several hours a day in the exercise pit?"

"Yes. Very good, Tariq," Shareem concurred. "I want to see his muscle bulk increased by at least thirty pounds, so that when I put him on the auction block, he will be the very image of Western physical perfection," then with a wry grin he added, "which will assuredly stimulate our buyers to bid ever higher for him. Have the veterinarians notify the kennels to prepare a diet with the appropriate hormones and steroids "

Tariq smiled in agreement, then asked, "What about the slave's retraining program?"

"Apparently his entire life has been lived in one command structure after another, first, under the control of his aunt, then of his continuous schooling, and now of his Catholic Church. He was born and bred to do what he was directed to, and that convinces me he will make an excellent slave, but there are also years of conditioning and learning that must be expunged."

Tariq frowned thoughtfully, then commented, "Even though there may be a high degree of resistance, Master, you have proven many times over that there is no substitute for the use of pain in overcoming it."

Continuing to write in his notes, Shareem replied absently, "Correct. No doubt he will need to be put under the lash and also humbled on a daily basis until no fragment of opposition is left in him."

"Collar and rings?" Tariq asked.

"Of course," Shareem responded, " the collar around his neck and heavy gauge steel rings through his nipples and ear lobes should keep him ever mindful of his state in life, then, after I inspect him, I will decide on the best size and shape for his genital cinch. And, obviously, if needs be, I will have him circumcised."

"I have heard, Master Shareem, that in America, his kind of Christians usually circumcise their males as infants."

"If he is already circumcised, and depending on how I choose to display him for auction," Shareem replied, "we may notch him all the way round anyway. That is a particularly good way of demonstrating to a slave his absolute helplessness, especially if there are also other slaves to be in fact circumcised at the same time."

Flipping his notes to a blank sheet, Shareem continued, "I want you to direct his retraining program, Tariq; your goal will be to bring him past the point of submission, but I do not want to rush this project.

"Have you an overseer in mind for him, Master," Tariq asked.

"I think Zarak would be ideal for the task."

"Oh, excellent, Master," Tariq responded enthusiastically. "Excellent."

"I believe," Shareem smiled cheerfully, "he was your overseer."

"Yes, Master," Tariq replied with a theatrical sigh, remembering the long hours spent in Zarak's bed. "I was his first charge after he received his gold rings, and, believe me, Master, he will teach this slave to do things in ways he has never dreamed of."

Shareem grinned and said, "I know, Tariq. I have watched the tapes."

Shareem closed his eyes momentarily and smiled at the images of the Zarak his overseer's expertise at simultaneously eliciting sexual pain and ecstasy, then shaking his head to clear his mind, he continued, "In addition to this slave's daily runs and his sessions in the exercise pit, I want him trained for combat. Classic wrestling to begin with, then perhaps Asian kick boxing later."

"Of course, Master," Tariq agreed. "He will provide years of excitement at his future master's entertainments, and, from what I have observed of him, even fully clothed as he is" he chuckled slyly, "I wager he will also provide handsome winnings for his master's coffers."

Both men gazed upon the sleeping youth, each in his own mind picturing the young man naked, in a combat ring, his body oiled and gleaming under a bank of spotlights, clenched in a fierce contest with an equally impressive specimen, fighting to the fuck. Icy fingers of excitement tickled their genitals, when abruptly and with no warning, the jet encountered a split-second of jarring air turbulence which immediately brought them back to their senses.

Bret opened his eyes momentarily as the jet shook and rattled; he shuddered reflexively in his reclining seat and was back asleep before the last vibration died away. Nor was he conscious for the pilot's reassuring words over the PA that everything was fine.

"Just a slight bump, Ladies and Gentlemen."

"Have you a buyer in mind, Master Shareem." Tariq whispered distractedly, anticipating a deluge of call button chimes.

With the silence of the cabin uninterrupted, Shareem continued sharing his thoughts and said in a low voice, "It is still much too early to decide whether I will want to display him for private auction or at an open one. However, with the perfection to which his already noteworthy attributes will be brought through your retraining program, Tariq, my first inclination is to put him up for private sale, and I know half a dozen connoisseurs I could invite to bid on him."

"Everything will converge as you have planned, Master."

"Yes," Shareem agreed. "Now, I think it is time to awaken my young companion."

-0-

Within his cocoon of sleep and soft music, Bret felt himself being rocked gently, as though he were in a hammock on a warm summer's day; drowsily he opened his eyes and was stunned to be gazing directly into Tariq's own deep, dark, liquid eyes.

"Excuse me, Mr. Hauser," Tariq smiled, his hand firmly on Bret's shoulder, slowly rotating his thumb along the collar bone. "We will begin serving breakfast in a few minutes. May I refill your champagne?"

"Yes. Yes, please. Thank you. Tariq." Bret stuttered, still disoriented from his sleep and from staring into Tariq's face so close to his own. He looked out the window to catch his breath and to control an unexpected tightening in his crotch. He saw that they were flying over water.

"The Mediterranean," Shareem said. "We passed over Athens just a few moments ago"

"Athens!? Jeeze! How long have I been out?"

"You obviously didn't get much sleep last night," Shareem commented solicitously. "You've been asleep since just after take-off, almost three hours."

Astonished, Bret stammered, "I do apologize, Mr. Shareem. I normally don't fall asleep on people. I hope I didn't snore."

Shareem laughed, "Believe me, Bret, you were no bother at all; besides, I had some paperwork I needed to finish before we land."

More to make conversation than to acquire information, Bret asked if Shareem lived in the Emirates. "At present," he answered, "I reside in several countries, Egypt, England, sometimes Hong Kong, but yes, I'd say Abu Dhabi is my principle residence."

"Your business keeps you traveling quite a bit then?"

"Sometimes more than I would prefer."

Tariq returned with a fresh glass of champagne for Bret and handed it to him, letting his fingertips lightly caress Bret's hand. A tingling, hair raising chill raced up Bret's spine and his lower gut muscles tightened once again Droplets of sweat began to form on his forehead and in his armpits, and he felt a passing light headiness.

"I need a little more champagne," he thought, "right now," then, glancing out the window, he took a quick swallow and a few moments to compose himself. Continuing the conversation he asked, "I hope I'm not being too forward in asking this, Mr. Shareem, but what business are you in?"

Tariq reappeared at that moment with breakfast paraphernalia and utensils. He laid crisp white napery over the men's tray tables, and set out heavy sterling flatware and Waterford crystal. Bret was astounded at the array of finery Tariq arranged before them. Grinning, he whispered to Shareem, "The only thing that's missing, is a bud vase with one perfect rose."

"I have a feeling" Shareem chuckled, "that if you asked him personally, Bret, Tariq would find one perfect rose somewhere and bring it to you." Not commenting this time on Bret's flaming cheeks, Shareem continued, "While we are waiting for breakfast, I will tell you a little bit about my business.

"I am an importer of expensive and exotic commodities. My clients tell me what they want or what they think they want, and I scour the globe to procure it for them. I and my agents around the world also acquire merchandise that I think my clients will appreciate, and I hold gala auctions of these items from time to time for their pleasure."

"That sounds fascinating," Bret said. "Have you ever gotten any really outrageous requests?"

"I do not know that I would call any of them outrageous; some are more difficult to find than others, but some," he said smiling broadly, "fall quite literally into my lap. I would say my clients are primarily interested in adding to their unique collections, as well as acquiring new luxury items for their estates. Sometimes a commission can be as simple as an addition to a client's entertainment system.

"It is the distinctive characteristics they request that sometimes send me scurrying from continent to continent. They may want something found only in Asia or Africa or on the Steppes of Russia, and such requests take much investigation."

Bret was about to ask for some specific examples of the kinds of objects Shareem imports, when Tariq appeared with their breakfasts and all thoughts of business fled Bret's mind. He gazed in awe at the magnificent smoked salmon and caviar omelet the steward placed before him. It was beautifully garnished and accompanied by a petite filet mignon so tender, a knife would not be needed.

A small silver basket filled with tiny breakfast pastries was placed beside the omelet dish. Tariq refilled Bret's champagne glass, and both men continued conversing through breakfast. Bret had grown as effervescent as his beverage and did not notice the Mediterranean thirty-seven thousand feet below speed by.

"You said you were continuing on to Delhi today, Bret; are you taking up an assignment of some sort there?"

"Not really," he answered. "My master's degree is in contemporary religious thought, and I want to continue my studies in that field, so I'm taking a couple of years to study Hindu spirituality:."

"You will be at university in Delhi?" Shareem asked, deciding he had finished his breakfast.

"No. This is going to be strictly a personalized study. I'm going to move around the country and search out and attach myself to different teachers as I find them and study whatever they have to teach."

"And," Shareem asked with some degree of astonishment, "this is something your Catholic Church approves of? Studying other religions?"

"Oh, sure," Bret answered. He had finished his breakfast completely, as well as his third glass of champagne, and was folding his napkin when Tariq arrived to take their trays away.

"It's been a couple of years since I've been back in the States," he continued, "and the man who was my bishop...uh, my `boss,' has retired, and I haven't yet met his replacement who seems perfectly happy to let me follow my own interests. I got a short note and a big check from him the day before I was ordained; he said if I wanted at any time in the future to take an assignment back home just to inform his office, and they'd take care of me."

Tariq returned with coffee and asked if either desired cream or sugar. "Black," both men replied.

"That all sounds somewhat cavalier to me," Shareem observed taking a sip of his coffee. "I should think a man with your training and education would be in high demand."

"Actually," Bret grinned self-consciously, "I do have a couple of job offers. One from the Gregorian University in Rome and the other from Union Theological in New York. But they want me to get my doctorate first. So I'm pretty much on my own till I decide to hit the books again, but I'm in no hurry and neither are they."

"That all sounds very interesting, Bret, and I can see why you would prefer to be on your own. There's so much for you to learn, to experience. Now, if you will excuse me again, my friend, I need to do some more paper work."

"No problem, Mr. Shareem. I haven't had a chance to read the inflight magazine yet." Shareem pressed the call button, and Tariq appeared instantly at his side.

"Wow!" Bret gasped, "it's like he popped out of a brass bottle."

"Tariq is an excellent cabin steward," Shareem commented glancing into Tariq's eyes, "and we appreciate his thoroughness."

"That is for sure, Tariq," Bret said emphatically. "You're fantastic."

"Thank you, gentlemen," Tariq replied. "It is my pleasure. Would either of you care for more coffee." Both declined. Tariq retrieved Shareem's case from under the seat in front of him, smiled, and placed it on his tray table. Shareem nodded in appreciation and to signal his decision to make the emergency landing; the steward nodded then removed the cups, saucers and miscellaneous debris left from breakfast.

The lovely voice again flowed from the plane's PA and announced that the in-flight movie would begin in a few minutes and requested that passengers in window seats lower their shades. She then announced on which channel the film's audio could be found.

As the cabin dimmed, Bret put his ear phones on, stayed with his music selection, closed his eyes, and, with his seat again fully reclined, was asleep before the film's opening credits began to roll.

In what seemed to him like an instant later, he awoke with a start to a bright sunlit cabin with passengers going to and from the lavatories, putting things into or retrieving them from the overhead bins. Totally confused, it took him a moment to connect with were he was. He slowly raised his seat, turned his head, and saw Shareem shuffle some papers, and place them into his briefcase.

Shareem glanced over at Bret and smiled quietly at his look of bewilderment. "Quel Dommage," he chuckled to himself. "The poor fool missed watching the last film he will ever see," then with a hearty laugh, he said, "Well, my friend, did you enjoy the movie?"

Before Bret could respond, the PA system crackled to life again. "Uh...Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I want to let you know that we have a warning light flashing up here on the flight deck, and while I don't think it's serious, we are obliged to land at the nearest airfield, so, even though we are close to our final destination, we will have to make an unscheduled stop first. I do apologize for this inconvenience.

"We will do our best to expedite the inspection of the aircraft after we land and be on our way again as quickly as possible. We will be landing at a military airstrip in Qassir in about ten minutes; in the meantime, please fasten your seat belts and follow any instructions from the cabin crew. Thank you for your patience and understanding."

Shareem rolled his eyes while the announcement was repeated in Arabic, and said, "I knew something would come up to delay me. Well, that is fate, is it not? We are one hour out of Abu Dhabi, and we have to make an unscheduled' landing." He imitated Bret's earlier "quotation marks" gesture at the word, unscheduled.'

"It's an adventure," Bret laughed. "We probably won't be on the ground that long anyway."

"I know how these things work," Shareem groaned. "Airlines say ten minutes and that means an hour; they say half an hour, that means two hours minimum; they say a couple of hours, and that means overnight at the airport. Mark my words."

Bret laughed and said, "Well that'll give us a chance to talk a little more, won't it?."

Again the PA came alive. but with a different and not as pleasant a female voice. "Ladies and Gentlemen. We will be landing at a Qassir military airfield in a few moments; the authorities there have requested that all passengers deplane and pass through security again before reboarding the aircraft. You will need to take all your belongings with you as you leave. We will try to be on the ground as briefly as possible. Thank you." Once more, the announcement was repeated in Arabic.

Tariq came to their seats leaned over and said very apologetically, "I am sorry, gentlemen, that I will not be able to offer you any more refreshments at this time, but as soon as the plane is airborne again, I will be at your service. Is there anything I can do for you at the moment?"

"Thank you, Tariq," Shareem said. "Would it be possible for me to use my cell phone or have a message sent by one of the pilots?"

"I shall find out for you right away," he said and hurried away to the cockpit.

Shareem leaned across Bret's chest, brushing the full length of his forearm lightly across the young man's lap as he peered out the window and said, "If we are where I think we are, I may know the man who is in charge of this airfield. And if that is the case, he will offer us," Shareem pointed to himself and Bret, "hospitality while his mechanics do to the airplane whatever mechanics do to airplanes."

"That's really very kind of you, Mr. Shareem. Thank you. I imagine a military airfield in the middle of the desert doesn't have much in the way of comfortable accommodations."

"Certainly not for stranded airplane passengers," Shareem responded smiling and easing himself back into his seat, his experienced, passing caress over Bret's more than ample genitals assured him they would definitely be a bidding incentive when this new slave of his stands naked on Mandrasat's auction block.

Tariq reappeared at Shareem's elbow and said, "Our pilot said there would be no problem if you wished to use your cell phone now. We will be on the ground very shortly."

"Thank you Tariq," Shareem said as he pulled the phone from the seat pocket. "Please excuse me, Bret," he said, "I have some loose ends to take care of."

Bret nodded and, clasping his hands firmly behind his head and arching his back and grunting, he stretched and held his legs taut under the seat in front of him as Shareem, quietly speaking Arabic into his phone, eyed with eager anticipation the young man's impressive bulge against the crotch of his tightly stretched trousers.

Passengers were instructed to store personal articles underneath the seat in front of them, stow their tray tops, and fasten their seat belts. The jet landed smoothly on the desert airstip without so much as a bump.

-0-

MANDRASAT is very much a 'Work Under Construction,' and I would appreciate hearing your thoughts and suggestions should you choose to continue reading through the story. Please email your comments to Pete Brown petebrownuk@yahoo.com