As I wait to mount the auction-block, the irony of my situation isn't lost on me!
I've been blessed - or cursed – depending on your point of view with a slave's nature and temperament. I'd recognized it at a very early age and I had accepted it as who and what I really am. It had never worried me that I am this way. In fact, quite the contrary is true. In my wild, erotic fantasies, I'd always enjoyed "playing" the role of a submissive and obedient slave.
My early life had been spent fantasizing about belonging as a white slave to a stern Arab master and yet I understand there is a big difference between fact and fantasy.
All those nights when I'd sweated in my bed and deliciously jerked off as I pictured myself kneeling in naked submission before my new master were as real as I needed them to be. It is one thing to fantasize about being a slave; it is quite another to actually live my life as one.
In truth, I would rather savour the dream than live the reality!
And why would I want things to be any different? At twenty-five, I am – or rather I was - a successful lawyer working for a London-based, international law firm and my work took me to many places. I travelled extensively throughout the world and I was equally at home working in Europe or Asia which were my special areas of operation.
Without being boastful, I am a conscientious worker, I am good at my work and this was recognized by my former peers and openly acknowledged by the principals of my firm. Indeed, just recently, I'd been told that I was on course for a junior partnership in the not too distant future and I would have seen this as a culmination of my efforts and as a fulfilment of my dreams.
Sadly, these things are now to be denied me! Rather than a promising future as an international trade lawyer I am doomed to spend the remainder of my days as another man's pleasure slave.
I have always been discreet about my lifestyle. I have never hidden the fact that I am gay – to do otherwise would be a denial of who I am as a person. And besides it would be deceitful on my part. But then, I didn't openly flaunt my homosexuality and considered it is no more noteworthy than the sexuality of my former, heterosexual work colleagues and friends. I'd never bothered to concern myself with how they lived their lives or how they expressed their sexual preferences. As far as I was concerned – what happened in the privacy of one's bedroom should remain there and it should be of no concern to others.
However, as I said, I do have a slave's nature and I can't remember a time when I didn't. I think it's true to say that I knew I was a "slave" before I knew I was gay. In my case, both are mutually exclusive and yet, at the same time, they are complementary to one another.
When I was young, I was often described as a gentle, kind, loving boy with a sweet nature who had a generous spirit and was always ready to help. These aren't my words, but I can remember that they were used to describe me as a child. On reflection, these could have been the early manifestations of my slave nature beginning to assert itself.
As I grew older this need to "please" became stronger and intensified. Upon entering into puberty, my fantasies about me being a slave consumed me. Always I was a slave to a stern Arab Master. And the nature of my slavery varied with my fantasies.
Sometimes I was an unfortunate seaman captured by the Barbary pirates and chained to an oar of one of their galleys. Here stripped naked, half-starved, with my throat and tongue swollen by thirst and my sun blackened body scourged perpetually by the overseer's lash, I laboured at the oar. In my erotic imagination, I suffered the unspeakable horrors of the galley slave and endured my personal "agony at the oars".
At other times, I was an eighteen year old cabin boy or a young European nobleman captured by the Corsairs and carried away to Algiers, Tripoli or Tunis and sold as a sex slave to a lecherous Master who added me to his harem of young, male slaves. How I salivated at that thought?
My imagination was so vivid that I almost lived the moments of my erotic thoughts. How real it all seemed to me when I imagined that I was paraded naked before the eager buyers. In my imagination, I could feel their hands roaming freely over my naked body, hefting my balls and stroking my cock to an erection. In my fantasies, I burned with shame as I was bent double and my ass checked for tightness and soundness.
And alone in the solitude of my erotic dreams, I trembled violently as I was placed on the auction block and sold.
However, the greatest of my fantasies saw me as a young Frankish squire serving in the Holy Land at the time of the Crusades. Here, after a fierce battle that saw all of my comrades slain, I alone was captured by the Saracens and sold to a slave-trader. Stripped naked and tied into a coffle of other captured Christians, I was driven overland through the scorching desert sands to the Red Sea. On the journey, I endured much suffering not the least being semi-starvation, thirst and the whip. During, our trip we crossed paths with other slavers travelling in the opposite direction delivering black African slaves to the markets of the Levant. These were the first black men, I'd ever seen and despite the precariousness of my own situation, I was impressed by their strange newness.
On arrival at a Red Sea port, I was sold. My new master was a galley captain who traded along the coasts of the Arabian Peninsula and he put me to work at his oar. Here I laboured under the lash rowing his cursed galley from one port to the next, loading and unloading his cargo of exotic good and on the return trip ferrying black slaves from the African shore into Arabian ports.
During the non-rowing season – when the seas were too rough for my master's galley – I was put to work in a quarry hewing large blocks of building stones and hauling them to construction sites. Here I laboured naked and under the cruel whips of the Saracens. And it all seemed very real to me.
Eventually, this wasn't enough for me; I needed much more from my erotic dreams. Whenever my new masters caned or whipped me, I needed to feel the cane biting into my buttocks or the whip cutting across my exposed back and I took to self-flagellation. In a sense, this made my imaginary slavery a little more real to me.
But of course, I wasn't really a slave. These things were just flights of fancy and just one part of my total persona. Despite my slave feelings and the need to suffer as one, I never belonged to a master. Somehow there were always impediments that prevented me from actively participating in the Master/slave lifestyle.
At first, it was my studies and then it was my new career. And so my slave experiences were confined to occasional brief encounters with dominants none of whom ever had great long term appeal to the extent that I wanted to permanently submit to them.
In all honesty, I did enjoy the over the knees spankings, the canings and the other acts of humiliation that these interludes offered me. But always uppermost in my imagination was the thought that Arabs are my natural masters.
However, this was only an erotic dream and for me – and an impossible one!
Or so I thought until three months ago when I'd met Anwar!
Part 2: June 2012
I first meet Anwar through my work and somehow we gravitate to one another. In him, I recognize the Arab master I've always craved in my fantasies and, as I am to find out later, he sees in me the "true slave" which he is determined to release and nurture to its full potential.
I estimate Anwar's age as being in his mid-thirties and he possesses a presence that simply overwhelms me at our first meeting. Tall, at slightly over six feet and weighing approximately eleven and a half stones, his physicality impresses itself upon me. And he has the Arab's haughty grandeur and a self-assurance that sees me immediately defer to him. It just seems so natural for me to do so.
Our meetings are business only affairs that see us maintain the correct level of respect and politeness which are the hallmarks of doing business with an Arab client. But my calm exterior belies my inner turmoil. Anwar is already exerting a disconcerting influence over me and I want to acknowledge him as my superior. Already, in the silence of my thoughts I call him – "Master".
But my discretion is called for. I hardly know this man and to date our only dealings have been on the basis of "strictly business only". Therefore, I struggle to keep my emotions under control and to treat Anwar as just another business associate. But it is hard and requires great willpower on my part.
At either our third or fourth meeting - I'm unsure which - Anwar, to my surprise, suggests at the close of our discussions that I dine with him. Of course, I don't need to be asked twice and I readily accept his invitation.
Unbeknown to me, this night is to mark a turning-point in my life and if I'd had the gift of foresight, I would have politely declined Anwar's invitation and walked away. But I accept his invitation and in doing so, my life is irrevocably changed forever.
Anwar takes me to a small but elegant Arab restaurant. Upon entering, Anwar is warmly greeted by the maître d' and as they speak Arabic to one another, they embrace. I am ignored but I put this down to Arab reserve and don't feel slighted in any way.
As we are shown to a table Anwar is enthusiastically greeted by other diners; it's obvious to me that he is both well-known and popular among his fellow Arabs. I take my place at the table and watch as a young, male waiter settles Anwar into his chair and carefully places a gleaming white napkin on his lap. I wait for the waiter to show me the same courtesy but I am ignored. Annoyed by the waiter's discourtesy, I nevertheless decide against embarrassing Anwar by drawing attention to myself.
For the next few minutes, we talk as waiters bring water and bread rolls to our table. Anwar ignores the waiters but I find myself watching their every movement. I am fascinated by them; I can't recall when I have seen so many handsome, young waiters all serving together in the same dining room. Their near presence arouses me erotically and I feel the first, warm stirrings in my loins of an impending erection. And as I look at them I wonder what gay man wouldn't be similarly aroused.
Each waiter is the epitome of white, male perfection. They are remarkably similar and yet there is a difference between them and it takes several moments to work out that the difference is in their hair colouring. At one end of the spectrum are the tousled haired blonds and at the other end are those with lustrous, thick, black hair. The others fall somewhere between these two extremes.
All are young - I guess they are aged less than thirty - and without exception all are in the peak of physical condition. Their uniforms of tight, black trousers and torso-hugging, white, satin shirts only serve to draw my attention their impressive physiques.
Quite obviously, they aren't wearing any undergarments as there are no unsightly seams of any underpants to mar the smooth, rounded contours of their ass hugging pants. Nor are the suggestive front bulges of their cocks and balls hidden from my sight; if anything these are emphasised. The top, three buttons of their shirts are casually unfastened to reveal their smooth, hairless chests and I am surprised to see that each of them wears an identical golden torc around his neck. I must say they add an air of exoticism to the Middle Eastern ambience of the restaurant.
I am so engrossed in watching the waiters move among the tables that I don't see Anwar looking at me. If I'd done so, I would see his smile of satisfaction at my reaction to the sight of the waiters.
The maître d' takes our orders; well I should say he takes Anwar's order as he orders for both of us. I think this is strange but shrug it off. After all, I am Anwar's guest and perhaps this is how wealthy Arab businessmen treat their dinner guests. While we wait, Anwar is joined by an elderly, overweight Arab gentleman who kisses Anwar on both cheeks before easing himself into a chair next to him. I'm not aware that he is the owner of the restaurant and I assume he is a friend or business colleague of Anwar's. I do notice the perspiration beading on his brow and I hear the rhythmic clicking of his misbaha beads as he speaks. He looks at me but doesn't speak. I am a little put out by this apparent rudeness but once again dismiss it as just another cultural difference between East and West.
They speak Arabic – which, of course, I don't understand - but I pick up that the man's name is Mustapha. Suddenly, Mustapha loudly snaps his fingers and a young, tow haired waiter hurries forward and stands at his side. Unselfconsciously, Mustapha reaches out and begins to grope the waiter's ass with one hand while he works the worry beads with the index finger and thumb of the other. To say I am shocked is an understatement. I blush from embarrassment and look around to see the reaction of the other diners. To a person, they are totally disinterested. In fact, I don't think they are aware of what is happening.
I look at the waiter and wonder why he is allowing this to happen. Surely, workplace regulations and union rules don't require an employee to suffer such public humiliation. But to my surprise, the waiter seems unperturbed and if anything he appears to be completely acquiescent. In fact, as I look on, he moves his feet apart and suggestively wriggles his ass to better position it for Mustapha's eager attention. Even as I watch, I see the indeterminate bulge in his crotch begin to expand until the elongated shape of his engorged penis is outlined in sharp relief through the tight fabric of his trousers.
Fortuitously, the table hides my own massive erection from public scrutiny and I am able to enjoy its throbbing beat without embarrassment.
Anwar and Mustapha continue to speak in Arabic and it is as well that I can't understand what they are saying. For if I could understand them, I would know they are speaking about me and of Anwar's plans for my future.
"Tell me Anwar, my old friend, who is this young Franj who dines with you tonight?"
"He's just a business colleague with whom I must unfortunately do business."
"He's not a slave? What a pity!"
"No Mustapha, he's not a slave. Well not at the moment but that will eventually change."
"How is it to change, Anwar?"
"Well! He possesses a slave's nature that yearns to be set free. He's unaware that I know this but I did recognize that side of him at our first meeting. And of course, I will assist him in that. I will help him understand his true nature and guide him into an acceptance of what he really is."
"He has a pleasing countenance and beneath his clothing I'm sure there's a body to match. Have you seen him naked?"
"Not yet! But hopefully that will change soon as I nurture him into his role as a slave. At the moment, I must do business with him and I am using my meetings with him to 'befriend' him. I must hasten slowly so as not to scare him away."
"Indeed you must, Anwar. But already I sense the hunt is underway. The prey is unaware that the hunter is stalking him. Does the prey have a name?"
"And it will remain so for a while yet, old friend. His name is Matthew and I need to ascertain to what degree he sees himself as a slave. Once I have discovered that I can formulate my next moves. Obviously, I need to expose him to the fact that genuine slavery still exists and flourishes. But I must do it in a way that doesn't frighten him away. I must whet his appetite and feed his slave fantasies without unduly alarming him."
"Well Anwar, you are a past master in such matters. I wish you well in the hunt. It may be a long one but the trophy that awaits you will be worthwhile. The young infidel will make a worthy slave. Will you keep him to serve you?"
"No he is too well-known in the City to simply disappear into my home as a slave. When he is ready, I will take him to Maluchistan on some pretence and sell him in the slave market. "
"What about your current slave, Anwar? I believe he's possibly a Norwegian. Am I correct in thinking that?"
"Mustapha, I'm unsure of my slave's birthplace – and really does it matter where a slave comes from - but his name is Sven which does sound Scandinavian."
"Ahh, yes! I do recall the name now. But to be honest it's his ass I recall the most. I well remember that night when I was a guest in your home and you graciously allowed me to use him. He was so eager to please and so exquisitely tight. That was a night to remember. But surely Sven is ready to be sold?"
"Eventually, Sven will be sold. He's eminently marketable at the moment and would fetch a high price in Maluchistan. But he serves me well and he still pleases me. I will retain his services for a while longer."
"That's makes sense, Anwar. And is this new slave is to be named Matt?"
"Yes, I'll call him Matt. I prefer that a slave has a simple name of one syllable rather than a more complicated one."
"It's quite amusing isn't it old friend? We are sitting here discussing Matt's future and he is blissfully unaware of the fact that soon he will be enslaved. I look forward to hearing more about him."
"Then old friend, I will keep you informed of Matt's progression into slavery. But tell me Mustapha. What of your own slaves working here in the restaurant? Surely you are ready to replace some of them. If I remember you cull half every twelve months, sell them in Maluchistan and replace them with new, fresh stock."
"You are correct, Anwar. As you know I have twelve slaves working here in the restaurant; half serve as waiters in the dining-room and the others work behind the scenes in the kitchen. Those working as waiters are scheduled to be sold soon. In fact, I will be taking them to Maluchistan within the next two to three months where they are to be sold at auction. Whilst I am there, I will buy new stock to replace the kitchen hands who will then work as waiters."
"It seems a lot of trouble to go to, Mustapha. I mean you spend so much time training them and you keep them for such a short period of time."
"That's true, Anwar! But my patrons like to see new, fresh faces serving them. It's one of the things that I know they appreciate and of course, I aim to please."
"And you succeed admirably, old friend. One of the delights of dining here is the sight of your slaves serving us. But what of this slave; is he to be sold too?"
"Indeed he is and I expect a high price for him." Mustapha emphasises his comments with a series of playful pats of the waiter's ass. "He'll please the most discriminating of masters with his tight ass and deep throat, won't you boy?"
Smiling broadly, the waiter answers Mustapha's question in Arabic.
"Yes Master! I look forward to serving my new master as happily as I have served you."
"Well, Mustapha, he looks happy enough and if that stain at the front of his pants is anything to go by then he is overjoyed."
Both Anwar and Mustapha laugh at the waiter's sticky predicament. Uncomprehending, I'm not able to laugh with them.
Mustapha suddenly dismisses the waiter with a loud slap on the ass and he moves away to attend to other diners. Mustapha and Anwar stand and embrace in farewell before the restaurateur moves to another table to greet its diners leaving the two of us alone to enjoy our meal.
And I have to say the meal is delicious. I've never before tasted Middle-Eastern cuisine and I am unfamiliar with its spicy delights. That, combined with the restaurant's décor – reminiscent of something from a thousand and one nights - relaxes me and I hear myself talking animatedly with Anwar. And all the time my eyes are fixed on the young waiters as they move through the dining-room. To be more specific however, my attention is fixed on their shapely asses and ill-concealed genitals.
If I took the time to notice, I would see that Anwar's attention is centred on me.
"Tell me Matt – may I call you that as Matthew sounds so formal between friends – are you enjoying your meal?"
Normally, I prefer to be called Matthew. But Anwar's reference to us being "friends" disarms me and I tell him I'm happy to be called Matt. Yet it seems so inappropriate for me to reciprocate and call him Anwar!
"Thank you, Anwar. By all means call me Matt. And yes, I'm enjoying the meal very much thank you. It is a first for me. I have never tasted Middle-Eastern food before."
"And what is your opinion of our Arab cuisine? Do you like it? Or is to too rich for your refined English tastes?"
"No! Not at all, it's fine. I like it. And I love the feel of this place. It all seems so authentic."
"My old friend Mustapha, who owns this restaurant, would be flattered by your kind words, Matt."
"You and he are friends?"
"Yes indeed! We are friends of many years standing. Mustapha is related to my father so in a sense we are also family. And family for an Arab is very important."
"And he operates this restaurant?"
"It is but one of his many business enterprises. But it is the one that interests him the most. He enjoys playing host to his many Arab customers. His days are taken up with his business affairs but each night you'll find him here personally supervising the operations of the restaurant and its staff. For him it is truly a labour of love."
"And he's to be complimented on all fronts. The décor sets the mood for the superb food. And his employees are without doubt among the most dedicated and polite waiters I have ever come across. They must be well trained?"
"Indeed they are Matt! They have a 'special' relationship to Mustapha which I will tell you about very soon. And I did notice your interest in them."
Anwar's reference to my interest in the waiters causes me to blush with embarrassment. Was I that obvious? This worries me. In lusting after the waiters did I betray my gayness to Anwar? I'm not ashamed to admit to being gay and eventually, if the need to do so arises, I will tell him of my homosexuality. But for the moment – this is only our third or fourth meeting – I've taken pains not to show it. I'm not overtly gay and for the casual observer it would be hard to make a judgement call about my sexuality. In all my dealings, I've always respected the sensibilities of my more traditional minded clients and never given them cause to wonder if I was gay. Anyway, I'm unsure of Arab attitudes to homosexuality and I've remained discreet in my dealings with Anwar. But has he guessed?
And I wrestle to find an appropriate answer to his pertinent comment. However, before one formulates itself in my mind, Anwar looks me in the face and asks directly.
"Matt, are you homosexual?"
Anwar's question is disconcerting but it requires a truthful answer and I reply in the affirmative.
"Yes, Anwar! I'm gay and I've never hidden the fact that I am. However, if that's a problem for you then I can arrange for one of my straight associates to replace me and to work with you."
"That won't be necessary, Matt. Thank you for your truthful reply. I admire your honesty and directness in answering. My suspicions were aroused when I saw you watching Mustapha's waiters. You seemed most interested in them."
"I'm sorry, Anwar! I didn't know I was so obvious."
"You weren't Matt! But as they say – it takes one to know one. You see, I too am a gay man."
Anwar's revelation genuinely surprises me. Nothing in his bearing or the manner of his speech would ever have aroused my suspicions that he is a fellow homosexual. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I am glad to hear that he is gay. He's exerted a strange influence over me from the moment we first met. Perhaps it was an unconscious recognition on my part that he is gay that had caused me to see him as the Arab master I'd always craved. This realization excites me and once more my cock springs to life under the table.
The remainder of our conversation is awkward. Neither of us broaches the subject of our mutual homosexuality. Instead, we make idle chatter and talk about such mundane things as the appalling summer weather and the incessant rain, the latest stock market reports and football games results.
Eventually, we finish our dinner and two comely, young waiters clear our table leaving us ready to depart. Because, Anwar is the host, I wait for him to make the first move. He looks across at the table and smiles warmly at me. Then he issues me with an unexpected invitation.
"Matt, the night is still young and please don't take this the wrong way. I live just a short walk from here and I would be honoured to have you come to my home for a Turkish coffee. We could talk and you could tell me some more about yourself. I find you most interesting and I'm eager to hear more about you. Will you come to my home?"
It would be churlish of me to refuse Anwar's gracious invitation. And besides, I don't really want to say no. Who knows what will develop between us. The prospect of being alone with Anwar in the privacy of his home both excites and arouses me. Dare I hope that we will make love together?
I wait inside the entrance to the restaurant as Anwar and Mustapha take their leave of one another. As they embrace -and kiss- they talk in Arabic and so their conversation is lost on me. I don't understand their words.
"Something tells me the hunt is about to begin, Anwar? Am I correct in thinking this?"
"Indeed you are Mustapha! The unsuspecting prey is to accompany me back to my home. There, he'll be exposed to the fate that awaits him in Maluchistan when he sees my slave, Sven for the first time."
"Then Anwar let the hunt begin and I wish you - good sport."
"Thank you, Mustapha. I will keep you informed as to how the hunt is progressing. Although as I think more on it, I think an analogy with angling would be more appropriate. Let's just say I've cast my line and he has taken my bait. Now I must gently play with him until he tires and then I can reel him in and catch him in my net."
To be continued ...........................................