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CH. 4 - gaynovel5



CH. 4
g - CH. 4 Newest pictures
Changed Life by Gerry Taylor



Chapter 4 – Yuriy Obov



Twice the following day, Wednesday, Tariq rang the

Bank to see how I was. Would he send his own personal

doctor over - it would be no trouble at all? Did I have

any after effects? Had I slept well? The questions went

on and were obviously from a genuinely concerned

person. Arab courtesy at times knows no end.



The second call was, in fact, to see if I would join

him for dinner that evening at his Palace. It had not

occurred to me to think where or how he lived. As I had

nothing on that evening I relented and finally said

‘Yes’, because otherwise I felt there would be more

phone calls of enquiry. He would send his own car to

collect me at six from the Villa where the Bank had

installed me. The Villa had been Tommy Elford’s family

home when he had been here and with six bedrooms, all

mod cons, with a driver and a cook thrown in, it was

more than spacious enough for my needs.



At five minutes to six, Tariq’s limousine arrived

and my own driver informed me as I was finishing

dressing. It had taken me an age to take a shower

without wetting the light plaster of Paris type

dressing on my wrist and I had felt dreadfully squalid

and dirty after the day of rolling in the dirt among

other things. My own driver seemed put out that he was

not driving me, the national hero, but I calmed him

down and said that he would be driving me each and

every other day.



Tariq had sent not only the limousine and driver but

also an elderly Arab in traditional dress who

introduced himself as the head of Tariq’s household.

Having made the traditional Arab of touching forehead,

lips and heart, he took my hand and raised it almost

tremblingly to his lips. The driver did likewise on

impulse, and the head of the household rebuked him with

some words I could not really hear, but I did hear the

driver reply, ‘But he is my Master’s saviour’.



It had not struck me until I was getting dressed to

go out, that six o’clock was very early for eating in

the Arab world. My Cook had said that dinner would

always be ready for me at eight at the Villa, whether I

had told him I would be there to eat or not.



The limousine surged ahead, there being little

traffic on the road and soon we had left the capital

far behind. I could have easily put a double bed in the

back with me where I was more reclining rather than

sitting. I finally pressed the intercom and asked the

head of the household, whose name turned out to be

Ahmed, how far out of the city we were going.

Ahmed replied that it was about an hour’s drive from

the city. As we were speeding along the freeway at what

appeared not less than 70 miles per hour, I felt a bit

surprised. He also said that his Master, again that

term, had spent the whole day preparing for my visit,

and I felt there was a trace of worry in his voice.

















The limousine appeared to me to be hardly moving

with regards to the flat desert landscape. The only way

you knew it was moving was that cars in the distance

came closer and passed by on the other side from time

to time. With the air conditioning on in the car, there

was absolutely no outside sound, so I put an easy

listening CD in the player and sat back to enjoy the

ride.



At precisely seven, the limousine, having left the

main road some minutes previously and headed toward a

white dot on the horizon, drew up towards the gates

which must have been all of twenty feet high. The white

dot had become an equally high wall stretching away as

far as the eye could see on either side of the gates.



Inside the gates, the desert gave way to a paradise

of green vegetation, crops growing, trees, palms and

plants. It took us a full minute’s drive still at what

appeared to be almost the same speed from the gates up

to the Palace, which was equally brilliant white in

colour.



Having pulled up, I was just moving to get up out of

the seat, when the driver was around at the door

holding it open. He must have moved in less than two

seconds. Again this time, he took my left hand, my

right being in the sling the hospital had given me, and

kissed it, but this time kneeling on the ground. Ahmed

barked something, and the driver scuttled away.



Immediately, Tariq was out to greet meet followed by

three other men. He went to embrace me but seeing the

sling did not know what to do, so in true Arab style I

put out my left hand and holding his hand, I kissed him

on both cheeks.



The three other men who had been following him each

in turn kissed my hand, each saying ‘Thank you, Master,

for saving our Master’s life.’ It was not until the

surprise had worn off, that I realised that they had

each spoken in English, unlike Ahmed who apparently

only had Arabic.



Ahmed was standing to one side in the doorway of the

Palace and turning towards him, I said to him in

Arabic, remembering his worried voice earlier on,

‘Thank you, Ahmed, for bringing me safely to your

Master.’ He appeared astonished and bowed deeply from

the neck and shoulders.



If I for some reason had astonished him, on going

into the Palace I was the one to now be astonished. On

walking into the foyer of the Palace which alone was

more the size of a tennis court, everyone walking

around there, moving too and fro was totally naked,

stark bollocks naked! The second thought of

astonishment was that they were all male, of various

heights and nationalities and colours. I could not see

any what generally you might term Orientals or

Africans.



I realised that Tariq was talking and I caught the

drift of what he was saying in welcoming me to his

humble home and that he and his slaves were there to

serve me. I had been so astonished at seeing the naked

members of his household, that the word ‘slaves’ did

not sink in for a moment. I thought that as he was

speaking in English, he might have misused the term

‘slaves’ when he should have used more appropriately

the word ‘servants’.



I also realised that, not only was he trying to say

thank you in the manner and custom that he knew how,

that he was doing me the courtesy of speaking in

English.

















‘Tariq, tonight one favour I ask. We are going to

speak only in Arabic. I have forgotten a lot of what I

learned in Cairo years ago, and if I do not make the

effort while in Dahra, I am never going to learn to

speak it as well as you do.’



Tariq clapped his hands with joy, and those who were

listening all started to smile. It was if a cloud had

lifted and it hit home that this guest was not going to

make life impossible for them.



I had somehow thought that dinner at Tariq’s Palace

would have been with his family or at least with some

family members present. But no, it was only the two of

us.



I was settled on a divan of cushions by two dark

haired young men in their early twenties whom I took to

be slaves, as they were naked save for a silver

coloured bracelet on their right ankles, one of whom

placed a pile of down soft pillows under my arm and

taking the arm in the sling between his hands, as if it

were Meissen porcelain, laid it down so gently that I

did not realise it was resting on the pillows until I

glanced over at it.



I said I would take off the sling and just leave my

wrist on the cushions. The other body slave looked

frightened not knowing what to do, so I merely slipped

off sling over my head and with a smile gave it to him,

again resting my arm down on the cushions.



As I could not use my right arm, not being

ambidextrous, the two took turns in feeding me and

giving me sips to drink, while I chatted with Tariq. I

complimented him on the splendour of his home, how well

trained his household was and that he was a lucky man.

He said that in their tradition these things were

willed by Allah, and that it was not luck I was with

him the previous day.











This I now realise was a second direct intervention

of Fate in my life. I was going to ask something, but

stopped as if not finding the word. He noticed and

said, ‘Tell me about yourself and your career.’ It was

a courtesy because everyone more or less loves taking

about themselves.



I gave him the shortened version of my life,

omitting what to some might be the juicier bits, so

that finally I said, ‘And you, Tariq, how is it that

you are at the Ministry of Finance?’ His career took a

bit longer than mine to relate, first, he had done a

far wider range of things than I and secondly, he was

talking in his native tongue which gave him a full

range of vocabulary.



He was a second cousin of the Sheik whose family was

directly traceable back to Saladin the Great. He was

the fourth of seven brothers, five of whom where still

living. He had four wives and fifteen sons. At that I

spluttered as if I had swallowed down the wrong way.

There was immediate alarm with my two attending body

slaves, one of whom went on to wipe my lips with a

cloth.



‘Tariq, you look no more than late thirties. Fifteen

sons?’ I had noticed that he had not mentioned

daughters.



‘I am thirty eight,’ he replied ‘and I married my

first wife when I was eighteen years of age. First

wife, three sons. Second wife, five sons. Third wife,

four sons and youngest wife, three sons.’

I looked at him with my mouth open.



‘Jonathan, you are thinking like a European. Here

marriage is different. It is to breed good sons and

continue the line. My eldest brother, who is fifty one,

has thirty eight boys.’



I thought he was joking, but obviously he was not.

‘May I ask you some questions, Tariq, and although I

am used to Arab customs, please do not feel insulted if

what I ask feels impertinent to you. Slaves. You have

used the word a number of times. Are there slaves in

Dahra?’



‘Yes, all who are here and do not wear clothes are

slaves. Those who wear cloth are either servants or my

employees. Slavery has always been in Dahra and always

will be. It is our way of life.’



‘Ahmed and the driver? They wore clothes’



‘Ahmed was a slave for fifty years and is now a free

man. He serves as head of my household. The driver is a

slave.’



‘But he wore clothes!’



‘Only when in the city. We are a modern nation in

the capital and there use western ways, but here in the

true country, we are a traditional nation.’ He asked me

what else I wanted to know.



I said ‘Do you have daughters?’



Tariq began to laugh so much, that a tear came down

his cheek. A body slave immediately jumped up to dry

it, but was waived away.



‘Yes, I have daughters. Twenty of them, I think. We

do not count daughters in the same way as we count

sons.’ He barked an order, calling for Ahmed who

arrived in at the same time as the driver who was this

time now naked.

The driver went on his hands and knees before his

Master and his forehead touched the carpeted ground.

Tariq said something I did not catch. I still had in

those early days some difficulty in understanding

comments in Arabic particularly when they are in a low

voice or in dialect.





The driver drew close to Tariq whose right foot went

between the man’s legs and he raised and lowered his

private parts a couple of times, and sort of rubbed the

short hair on the slave’s head. It was a profoundly

erotic moment, because it showed a complete Mastery of

an owned animal whose head had just been petted. Tariq

pushed him away with a half gesture and instead of

going away, he scuttled on his hands and knees the few

paces over to me and kissed my feet.



For the first time, I saw a thunder of anger in

Tariq’s face at what he must have perceived as an

impertinence to a guest. But I smiled down at the

driver, gently raised my right foot as Tariq had done

and nudged his balls and cock twice, and the same time

giving his bristly hair and rub and a pat.

Tariq’s anger was gone just as soon as it had come.



I said, ‘he is quite affectionate towards you,

Tariq, and I suppose as I am your guest he is

affectionate towards me.’



‘Jonathan, I do not think that is the reason for his

affection towards you. He knows like the others here,

that had I been killed yesterday, they would have been

distributed among my brothers, whom I can tell you are

not as kind to their slaves as I. My sons, the eldest

of whom is just 19, would of course have my wealth

divided among them, but the handling of slaves is

always best left to mature men.’



‘Tariq, how many slaves do you own?

He looked at me as if I had asked him how many

shirts or pairs of socks he possessed. Ahmed coughed

and Tariq looked up at him, ‘Five hundred and seventy

three slaves, Master, and twelve servants here at the

Palace,’ Ahmed said.



My mouth must have really dropped open, because

Tariq said, ‘Jonathan, you are thinking like a

European. Here it is the way of life.’



Ahmed coughed again in the back of his throat and

barely perceptible to the ear.





‘Yes, what?’



‘The Master has twenty three daughters, the last one

being born three weeks ago.’



Tariq smiled broadly. ‘Now you see why I need a good

head of household’.



But in my mind, I think he was smiling because his

head of household, had not just given a fact, but had

pointed out the sexual prowess of his Master at the

same time without it being too explicit.



He barked something and the driver and the head of

household disappeared. The two body slaves who had been

feeding me and giving me to drink became more

attentive. I had noticed how they seem to sulk somewhat

when I had fondled the genitals of the driver with my

foot.



The one who had taken my arm to rest it down on the

cushions had been giving me sips of a sweet drink from

a glass, while the other had taken care of the food. I

noticed that when the food body slave went to feed me

again, he placed his knees on either side of my foot

and when he had finished giving me a morsel to eat, his

privates were just over my shoes. I therefore gave his

genitals a stroke or two with the tip of my shoe and he

positively beamed. Out of the corner of my ear, I

noticed the slightly jealous look on the face of the

body slave who had been giving me to drink.



Tariq said in an annoyed voice ‘Are they bothering

you?’



‘Not at all, Tariq, they are doing their job and

very attentive.’



Switching to English, I said, ‘At times, I think,

you must have problems of jealousy between your slaves

as they seek your favour.’



He laughed and said ‘How right you are!’





He was silent for a minute or so, like a man who

wants to say something but can’t find the right word or

moment in which to say it.



‘Jonathan, I want to give you a present, but I hope

that you are not going to be offended by it. In fact, I

want to give you two presents.’



I was going to interrupt but he put a finger halfway

up in the air, as if trying to give himself space in

which to say the rest.



‘You have done the Sheikdom a great service

yesterday in saving my life. My work here is important.

The Finance Minister is a first cousin of the Sheik and

is a figurehead. He represents the families of western

province. My direct boss as you would call him, the

deputy Finance Minister, is again filling a post

specifically created for him. He too is a cousin of the

Sheik on his mother’s side, who herself comes from a

very powerful tribe, and he also a figurehead. It is I

who actually make the decisions on finance here in

Dahra.’



‘I wish to transfer some three billion euro of my

personal assets for management to Deckams private

banking service. I know the Bank does very well for

some others and will do the same for me. I will

transfer more in time, but at present, my other assets

are either maturing or in long term commitments. This

10% I am transferring is what I have in cash at the

moment.’



My head was reeling. I do not think it was the drink

as it was not alcoholic. It was the sheer size of the

transfer. If Tariq was transferring 10% which was three

billion euro, then he was valuing his total personal

assets at thirty billion. And he was just one of some

hundred members of the Sheik’s family. He was also

making me privy to his wealth, which Arabs never did

except to the closest of their advisers.





‘Secondly, I wish to make you another gift.’ And he

clapped his hand twice sharply.



The doors through which we had come earlier in the

evening open and a slave walked in. He was naked,

Caucasian, a little over six feet two, superbly fit,

and it left me puzzled. He walked in with his hands by

his sides and up to Tariq and made obeisance, going

down on his knees and letting his head touch the

carpet. I did not see him carrying in the present Tariq

was talking of and presumed that he would now rise and

get it.



Instead, the naked man rose and coming over to me,

he again went down on his knees and his head touched

the carpet at my feet. He then stood up, stepped back

about two paces, putting his legs about two feet apart,

put his hands behind the nape of his neck and pushed

out his chest. He was truly awesome.



When I said naked, he was totally that, but for a

centimetre wide silver looking band around his right

ankle. I subsequently discovered, having noticed it on

others as well, that this ankle bracelet was of pure

titanium, impossible to cut without a very special type

of tool of which there were only two in the Sheikdom,

and in the band there was a GPS - global positioning

satellite – code which could locate the bracelet, and

therefore its wearer, within two metres with ArabSAT

IV, one of the Gulf’s geodesic satellites.



Now up so very close, every vein could be seen under

the slave’s skin which was slightly oiled over

perfectly even tanned. His musculature was superb, with

perfect arms, hips and a narrow waist. I could feel

myself getting an erection there and then just looking

at him.



‘Well, Jonathan, do you like my present or not?’

The penny dropped. The man in front of me, this

ultimate specimen of Caucasian manhood was the present.



For a third time in as many hours, I was speechless

but then somehow managed to find my voice.

‘Tariq, I am an Englishman! Englishmen do not own

slaves! How can I accept your present? How can I refuse

it without hurting your feelings? You have done more

than sufficient for me this evening.



‘Jonathan, Jonathan,’ he spoke as if chiding a

child, ‘you have a lot to learn about slaves and even

about those Englishmen who own them, I can assure you.

He is yours to do with as you please or as you don’t

please. He is my gift to you. I could not think of what

else to do at such short notice, until I remembered

what you had said when you were in the hotel foyer,

about the your type of perfect man, the Aussie rules

football type, I believe you said.’



‘Tariq, that was a comment, a phrase. I did not

think you would do this. Where could he live? What

would I do with him?’



‘Jonathan, you are still thinking like a European.

When in Dahra, do as the Dahrans do. I will not answer

those questions for you, because you will have to find

answers for them not just for yourself, but in

yourself.’



‘So, if I tell him to do something, he will do it,’

I asked.



‘Yes, he will. But I must tell you that he has only

been trained for three months, so must be considered

still half wild. Fresh slaves are never really deemed

to be really trained until after two years. With this

one, you may have a slight problem, and for this I

apologise, but he was the best that I could find among

my stock today and there is no market until next week.

He is a Kazakh, so he only speaks I am told Russian,

Kazakh and only a few words of basic English. I can

have him speaking English for you in 30 days if you

wish.’



I had to laugh at the apparently absurdity of the

moment. Here I was being given a slave, considering

owning a slave and being told that he could be taught

English in thirty days. As they say, I know people who

can’t speak English after thirty years.



I looked up at the Kazakh who seemed to be looking

at some spot over my shoulders or some such place.

Pointing to a spot on the carpet in front of me, I said

‘Sit.’ It was my first command to a slave of my own or

of anyone else’s for that matter and a defining moment

in my life.





To be continued…




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