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part 18

Chapter 18 – The Sheik’s visit

The hand you cannot break, you kiss.

(Arabian proverb)



The al-Kadir property had all the advantages of a rundown farm. What had been there by way of slave barracks, for they were nothing more than that, had been easily demolished, and I did that by simply burning them to the ground.

What had been laid out for original crops could easily be farmed over. Stan Mercer and his property slaves were putting together what for all the world looked like a chessboard of irrigation ducts; a criss-crossing of what would be underground pipes every twenty meters for the complete irrigation of the al-Kadir farm.

The farm of over sixteen hundred acres need extensive tillage. I did not intend to disturb the palm trees and their date production, but I was intending to try two of the varieties of kiwifruit which my old school master, Graham Hodson, had suggested as being most suitable for the climate. I felt I could experiment with six hundred acres, three hundred to each type of kiwifruit.

On my present usage of slaves, I was going to need another three hundred or so, as one slave can effectively look after five acres, or rather a kofila of eight can look after about forty acres at any one time of agricultural production.

As this project was going to be purely agriculture and production, I ordered two three-storey outbuildings to be copied from those at the Lemon Palace. David Tuttle at Annan and Annan agreed to take care of that order for me.



Georgi Gridov, my little Georgian slave, would be the Head of Stables with Dieter from the cactus gardens as one of the supervisors of this farming project, but I had not told him yet. I summoned the seven slaves who had returned from the opal mine where they had survived its cruel heat for five years. They would be the first Supervisors on the al-Kadir farm.

When creating a Supervisor, I have always given them a white fly-swish with an opal set in the hilt as a sign of authority. This gesture had even preceded my purchase of the opal mine.

Two of the slaves cried when they got their swishes. I thought that my two simple but very loyal Russians, Basili and Igor, would die of pride their chests were so inflated as they were now promoted and put in charge of the cactus gardens. They kept looking over at Georgi and Dieter their former fellow cactus garden slaves as if to say in the simplicity of their glances ‘just look at us.’ But, before the entire assembly of slaves, it is an effective recognition of service in its different forms, service which can be long-time unrewarded, or for simple acts, but almost always for untrammelled and unqualified loyalty to me as Master.



Budd Chavez was also a departing guest that day. When he came out on the veranda to join me for lunch, his usual slave companion Terry Peoples had been in the background and from his red eyes, I knew at once that he had been crying.

‘That sad, Terry?’

Terry swallowed hard and nodded his head. He was unable to speak. As Budd sat down, Terry came forward and unfolded a napkin and put it over Budd’s lap. Even Bob Conrad, my maître d’ did not object to the abusing of his powers by the upset Terry who continued to serve Budd silently throughout the meal.

At one point, when Terry had gone back into the kitchens, Budd said, ‘Despite what you may think, Jonathan, I have had a most relaxing few days. Terry and I get on famously. It is not just sex, though there is a lot of that. We just seem to bond.’

‘Budd, I only think the best of you and of Terry. He is young and cannot control his emotions.’

‘That is one of the things, Jonathan, I love about him. He has absolutely no guile; none whatsoever. I feel I am imposing when I say that in my own mind I have been already thinking of a return visit.’

‘Budd, there is always a bed waiting for you, and Terry will always be waiting for you, as well, of course.’

Terry had come out at this stage from the kitchens.

‘Did you hear all of that, Terry? Budd is planning a return visit already.’

The voiceless Terry nodded his understanding as a fresh couple of tears started to roll down his tanned cheeks.



My visit to the al-Mera slave centre in late December was different than on previous occasions. I brought along in the Rolls my three Heads of Stables, Yuriy Obov at the Aloe Palace, Dumi Bod from the Lime Palace, Komil Rostov from the Lemon Palace. The auctions at the slave centres go on all year. The dealers are usually obliging to clients who purchase slaves in multiples and who wish to arrange a private viewing of the stock once the slaves have passed through processing and basic training.

So as not to upset Dahran sensibilities, each of my Overseers was dressed in slacks, an open necked shirt and sandals. With their GPS settings set to the borders of the Sheikdom our purchasing spree was in no danger of being intercepted by the sudden appearance of the Dahran police force on the road in ‘escaped slave’ mode.

Al-Mera was holding one of the last sales of the year. I had taken the comments and suggestions of my Overseers on board and I explained to the centre that for the moment I needed some forty to forty five slaves and that each could choose the most suitable fifteen for farm work they could find. The Overseers already knew that this would be the heavy work of digging the irrigation trenches.

There are those who would say, ‘why not buy a JCB with a bucket and have the trenches dug in double-quick time?’ Quite apart from keeping mechanical equipment on the farms to a minimum, with their spare parts costs which always and inevitably spiral, together with fuel and maintenance which never drop, slaves once processed through my systems at the Palaces are there to give me up to thirty or so years each of good trouble-free service. And if the truth be known, I am a person who prefers humans, not one who prefers machines, although I have no aversion at all to using the latter in business.

I prefer to look at a team of slaves sweating in the sun, the perspiration streaming off their well-toned bodies, than at a piece of smoke-and-fume belching machinery, however double-quick it may be at doing its job. Such exercise is also good for the slaves. Not only does it create good overall musculature, it leaves a natural colour on the slaves not like the almost artificial tone-ups of gyms and fitness centres.

In summary, I told each of my Overseers to choose fifteen, and I for my part would also choose a couple as well. We could see how many of mine matched theirs. I did not expect, nor did we finally get, all forty five out of al-Mera, it being the end of the western calendar year among other things.

When I looked at the dossiers of those chosen, yes, I could feel happy that my Overseers knew my mind and the needs of the new property. There were only two choices from the viewing hall which were individual to me.

One was a Russian whose shoulders must have been all of thirty inches wide and who had a mat - no an absolute rug - of black hair from his Adam’s apple to his groin. His legs and forearms were also very heavily haired. He was not tall, not as tall as I, and his massive shoulders gave him a squat look.

When I looked at his folder, I saw that he had been a sergeant in the army. In fact, four of my other choices had also been army, one of the units that had been sold off by two enterprising generals. The MIA’s - ‘missing in combat’ - of some of the permanent skirmishes along Russian borders had long been a source of great profit to military entrepreneurs.

But what set him apart from all the others was his penis, or rather his lack of penis. His cock was tiny almost less than an inch with a small covered uncut head.

I had placed my hand as I am wont to do with a slave; first on his shoulders when examining him both so that I can feel if the slave is afraid or comfortable with my examination and touch. This slave was quiet and in control of himself. I ran my hand down each side of his back and noticed the profusion of back hair. The Palace would have quite a time removing this body hair.

When I came around to his front and put my hand on his chest, I could feel the warmth of his rug of hair. It was quite extraordinary. His nipples were tiny and very red. His hands were velcroed behind his head and he did not move a muscle.

Looking at his folder, I saw his name was Alexei Gritsov. I looked him in the eye and I noticed that unlike a fully trained slave he was looking at me intently and then he was looking across the room. I caught this glance twice and I thought that he was looking at another slave.

‘Alexei?’ I said, getting back to the job in hand, half in statement, half in introductory question.

He bobbed his head and said ‘Da’ in a low voice.

I let my hand run down his body. It was hard muscle and that of well-trained military personnel. As he was standing on a small dais for viewing purposes and I on the lower ground, I started to examine his front carefully. So when it was time to examine his genitals, I merely did as I would a skittish animal and let my hand run up the inside of his thigh.

His balls were also small, so small in fact, that I thought there might be nothing in his scrotum, but they were there alright. He had not moved an inch at my touch. I looked at his penis and it was small. Outside the pictures of putti cherubs and angels in art, I had never actually seen a penis so small.

Looking at his face, his _expression was one of neutrality; neither of acceptance, nor of denial, nor of expectation, nor of shame. Neutral. I wondered if I could have maintained the same equanimity, were the roles to have been reversed.

I left the slave alone and walked round the viewing room and tried to angle in on the slave at whom Alexei had been looking. There were four in the one area and it could have been any one of them. I looked across at him and I could see that he was following me intently with his eyes. I stopped at the first slave and looked back at Alexei Gritsov. There was no reaction; the same at number two. When I got to number three, whom I had not really looked at, at all, and then looked back at the former army sergeant, he gave a very slight nod. Had I not been looking for it, I would not have seen the gesture.

I turned to look a very nervous skinny slave with a runny nose, and as I did his head went back, he closed his eyes and sneezed. I had just time to step out of the way of the spray. With his hands velcroed behind his head, there was little else he could do than jerk with the autonomic reaction.

Mustafa ben-Mustafa Jr. the nephew of the centre’s owner came over almost at a run, a camel cane in his hand already half-raised to administer punishment.

‘Mustafa, it was a sneeze; nothing more. He has a cold.’

‘Sir Jonathan, a slave should know how to control himself.’

‘Get me a copy of his folder.’

‘Yes, Sir Jonathan.’

While I was waiting, I looked at the skinny slave with his mouse ...
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