MANDRASAT Book One. Chapter One. "A Prequel: December 15, 2001." (cont'd).
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The airfield had no jetways, so movable stairs were rolled to the plane's two side exits, one for first class, one for the main cabin, and as soon as Bret stepped onto the platform at the head of the stairs, the intense desert heat hit him like the proverbial blast from a furnace.
"Good Lord," he exclaimed. "I had no idea about this heat."
"And do not let anyone fool you by telling you it is just dry heat," Shareem said as they started down the stairs. "This `dry heat' is over thirty-five degrees Celsius. Around a hundred and five degrees or so Fahrenheit."
"And that's mighty hot even for one-thirty in the afternoon, " Bret grinned checking his watch which was still on London time.
As they stepped onto the tarmac, Shareem said, "Follow me. I am sure I will find my friend sitting in his air-conditioned office."
Even in the late afternoon, the heat was so intense that the hot paving stung through their shoes. Halfway to the terminal building, Bret noticed that the plane and the passengers were surrounded by soldiers, all in desert fatigues and all carrying automatic weapons, and there were soldiers around and throughout the gray cinderblock terminal building, similarly dressed and similarly armed.
"This place looks like they're expecting an invasion," Bret whispered.
"It is just that they do not get much excitement in this remote place," Shareem answered, "so when something out of the ordinary occurs to break the monotony, they tend to overcompensate."
As they entered the nondescript terminal building along with the other hundred or so passengers, Shareem walked up to a soldier standing at the entranceway and spoke to him in Arabic. After the soldier had responded, Shareem turned to Bret and asked him to wait with the soldier for a few minutes while he went looking for his friend.
"It may not be any cooler in here," Shareem said with a smile, "but it's no hotter, yet." Then he went off.
There was no air-conditioning in the building, but all the doors and windows were kept wide open which Bret guessed reduced the chances of heat prostration, but not by very much; there were no chairs either, so many of the passengers, now resembling a group of refugees, squatted or sat on the floor.
He set his backpack down and laid his heavy jacket on top of it; this morning's icy London weather seemed worlds away. He unbuttoned and removed his plaid flannel shirt and added it to the pile at his feet, then pulled his sweat dampened tee shirt out of and over his trousers, holding it in front of him and shaking it to create a draft over his stomach and chest. A cascade of thick, black hair spilled over the shirt's collar.
In a few minutes, another soldier approached him, and said in heavily accented English, "Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Hauser?" Bret nodded. "Please then to follow us," he said, picking up Bret's belongings.
Accompanied by the soldier Shareem had asked him to remain with, the second soldier led Bret through the crowd to a set of steel doors with large, green, Arabic characters stenciled above them which he assumed said something like, "Authorized Personnel Only." "Or perhaps," he chuckled to himself, "Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here."
The two soldiers escorted him in silence down a lengthy corridor, through several sets of doors and along several side corridors to a door guarded by another soldier, who turned, knocked, opened the door, then motioned Bret to enter. As he stepped into a wonderfully air-conditioned room and was about to thank Shareem and his friend sitting behind a desk, a bulldozer slammed full force into his back, hurling him to the floor.
The explosion of bodies as three powerful soldiers flung themselves on him, plowing the butts of their rifles into his back, was so violent and so unexpected that Bret, his breath knocked out of him, had no opportunity even to think before a thick cloth, saturated with a foul smelling, bitter tasting solution, was pressed against his nose and mouth. He had no choice but to breath in the fumes, and pinned tightly as he was by the soldiers, he was unable even to struggle. In a very few moments, amid the roaring of steam engines in his head, he lost his hold on consciousness, and a thick, black fog swallowed him, and he was gone.
Shareem and the army officer sitting at his desk watched dispassionately as the soldiers had thrown themselves on Bret, much like a pack of wild dogs onto their prey. He was too stunned to cry out as they dragged him to the floor and covered his face with the drug soaked towel.
After Bret lost consciousness, Shareem turned to his companion and said in Arabic, "That was very impressive, my friend."
The officer stood up and leaned over his desk for a better view and said, "And this one has the look of a thoroughbred."
"Oh," Shareem continued in their native tongue, "if you only knew."
"Uh? Slake my curiosity, Shareem."
"In good time, Mustafa. In good time" Then gesturing toward Bret, he called out to the soldiers, "Strip the slave naked." And in a very few seconds, they had ripped off all of Bret's clothes and tossed them into a pile on the floor; then, laughing and joking, they rolled him onto his back and pulled his legs wide apart for Shareem's inspection.
"This one will assuredly bring you a tidy profit," Mustafa said gazing at the unconscious young man lying naked and spread-eagled on the floor. "May I have him for an hour or two myself?"
Shareem laughed out loud. "Not just yet," he answered good naturedly. "I have promised his virgin hole to another, but, after all that you have done for me today, you will certainly have your pleasure with him before we leave."
Feigning disappointment in his voice and on his face, Mustafa demanded, "And who may I ask have you promised him to ahead of me?"
"My servant, Tariq," he laughed.
"Ah ha," Mustafa snorted. "Your Freeman. Did you send him out looking for a specimen like this?"
"No, not at all," Shareem protested. "This one fell into our hands quite by accident. Tariq saw him in the check-in line at Heathrow this morning. I had told him to keep watch for tall, muscular white males, but neither of us considered the possibility that one would show up today right under our noses.
"Tariq had to do a very rapid investigation to find out who he was and where he came from, and then make all these arrangements to take him, so, in order to encourage him in future such endeavors, I am allowing him to be the first to claim the slave."
"When will you move him?" Mustafa asked with more than a trace of actually true disappointment in his voice.
"I am in no hurry. He needs to experience some of the basic facts of his new life, and he might as well do it here." Shareem smiled maliciously and ordered the soldiers to, "tie the slave's hands behind his back." Then turning again to Mustafa, he asked, "When can we wake him ?"
"The drug is quick acting, but not long lasting. I would say in no more than fifteen or twenty minutes." He stepped around his desk and walked over to watch his soldiers bind Bret's wrists together.
"Go ahead and inspect him, Mustafa. He looks well worth the effort."
The Colonel grinned and ordered his soldiers to leave the room, then knelt down between Bret's outstretched legs and began fondling his genitals as though he were weighing them for purchase; he did not speak until the door closed behind the last soldier to leave.
"Nice and firm," he commented, "good for breeding. Do you intend to breed from him?"
"Of course I intend to breed from him," Shareem answered curtly, "just as I do with all my livestock. I have over twenty brood females newly arrived from Russia and the Balkans waiting to be inseminated."
""So," Mustafa laughed, "you are giving your young slave stud a herd of Russian beauties to fuck?"
"Do not speak foolishly." Shareem responded. "He will never even see their cunts let alone fuck them. Why would I waste his cum fucking females with his cock one at a time when the product of just one milking will impregnate over half of them all at once? Each whelp he produces will be worth many tens of thousands on the black market."
"Then without a doubt" Mustafa declared, waving Bret's cock back and forth "this hefty pump will make millions for you."
"Yes, and be careful," Shareem scolded, "I do not want it damaged before I am ready to sell it."
Still laughing, Mustafa ran his hands through the captive's thick patch of jet black cock hairs and into the abundant swirls of black body hair on his belly and chest. "Good muscles here too," he continued, "he will work well in the fields or quarries, or even as a donkey slave in the mines."
"I already have in mind to include a large dose of hard labor in his retraining program. After pulling loaded ore carts on his hands and knees in the copper mines, any thoughts he may have of escape or rescue will be crushed to dust."
Mustafa was surprised at the intensity of Shareem's response. "My friend, little hints in your words and manner have led me to believe that there is something unique about this slave you have not yet spoken of. Please, what is the mystery that surrounds him?"
"There is no mystery about him," Shareem replied brusquely. "The mystery is in your overactive imagination."
But Mustafa would not be put off so easily. "Come now, Shareem. We have known each other far too long for me not to recognize your evasions. Tell me what you are concealing about this beautiful sleeping slave of yours."
Shareem smiled slyly and said in a low, dramatic whisper, "This new slave of mine was just made a Christian priest of Rome."
Mustafa's jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he turned, still cupping the slave's cock and balls, looked at Bret's inert body. For a few moments, neither spoke, then, when the full impact of Shareem's words had sunk into Mustafa's brain, he said with a gasp, "a Roman priest? You took one of their priests?" And he threw his head back and roared with laughter.
"You took one of their priests! I cannot believe it," he screamed and laughed uproariously until tears streamed down his face. "This is a Christian priest's cock I have in my hand?" He said, gasping for breath. "And a Christian priest's balls. Oh, my friend," he hiccuped and sputtered. "You will not just turn a tidy profit on this one," his laughter choked his words off momentarily, "you will reap a king's ransom.
"This is a precious jewel," Mustafa continued laughing, "and when your clients find out this sleek, long-legged stallion was a Roman priest, they will be bidding in the hundreds of thousands for him. Oh, to take his virgin hole would be a delight beyond measure, a glowing moment. Give him to me, Shareem. Please, give him to me now."
"My friend," Shareem pronounced with mock seriousness, "I promised his hole as a reward to Tariq first. It will still be the same Roman priest's hole when you mount his ass, and the same Roman priest screaming for mercy when you impale him on that horse cock of yours, and it will still be the same Roman priest's mouth sucking down all the hot cum you can muster. Besides," Shareem concluded with a bemused smile, "a pleasure deferred is a pleasure twice enjoyed."
"Bullshit, Shareem. Bullshit." Mustafa gazed hungrily at Bret who looked as though he were peacefully asleep. "I will wait for you my beautiful young Roman priest, and then I will fuck your ass off."
It was now Shareem's turn to throw back his head and laugh. "The sooner we rouse the slave, the sooner you can taste the pleasures his holes have to offer."
Mustafa rose from his knees and, stepping to the door, opened it and motioned the soldiers to re-enter the room, then, still shaking with barely suppressed laughter, he ordered them to raise Bret's legs, bend them, and press his knees against his chest.
Mustafa then stooped down over Bret's anus and said, "look at this beautiful pearl, this pink bud." He sighed as he began to finger and probe the opening. "I look forward to losing myself deep inside its embrace. However, my friend," he said turning toward Shareem and pursing his lips with mock distaste, "he is much too hairy for a slave."
"After Tariq has claimed him," Shareem countered, "he and your soldiers can take him somewhere and shave him. I am extremely impressed with the shape of his head, very rugged. Completely shaved, it will make an irresistible attraction, increasing his value on the block immensely, and with all that body hair gone as well, his muscles will stand out much better."
"And his cock will look much bigger," Mustafa laughed curling his fist around Bret's limp organ.
"It does not need to look any bigger," Shareem answered abruptly, surprised at feeling so possessive about his new slave's body. "It is already big enough. And thick." A sharp knock at the door interrupted their banter. "Find out what that is," Mustafa snapped at one of his soldiers who in turn opened the door and spoke briefly to a soldier on the other side, then, shutting the door, he turned to Mustafa and said, "Sir, the plane is ready to take off."
"Good," he said, standing up and pulling a handkerchief out of his pants pocket. "To paraphrase you, my friend, the quicker they are on their way," he smiled, wiping his fingers on the handkerchief and glancing at Shareem, "the quicker we can have our way with this beautiful new slave of yours." Then he asked, "How are you masking his disappearance? Surely someone will notice he is missing."
"Not according to what he told me," Shareem answered. "He has no family and no immediate responsibilities. His plans were to wander India for several years, and" he chuckled, "you know how dangerous India can be for a foreigner."
"I do indeed," Mustafa laughed. "I do indeed."
"Have your soldiers strip to the waist and remove their boots and socks; when the time arrives, I want them naked also, easily and swiftly and ready to begin the slave's retraining."
As Mustafa gave the order to his troops, they could all hear flight Zero-Zero-One in the distance, roaring down the runway, lighter by three.
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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