Chapter 2: Sven, the Slave
Without doubt, Anwar lives in a most fashionable area!
The short walk from Mustapha's restaurant to Anwar's home traverses the broad streets which give this part of London its distinctive character. Built in the mid-nineteenth century on what were once the city's market gardens, this area is dominated by the gracious three storied mansions which formerly housed Britain's elite in grandiose style. Nowadays, it is more cosmopolitan and it is home to an eclectic mix of financiers and bankers from Europe and the Middle-East. It's an area of the city that I'm not that overly familiar with; I own a spacious apartment with water views in a recently redeveloped area of docklands adjacent to the river.
We make small talk as we walk through the chill, night air. There aren't too many people out walking; other than the infrequent, local resident exercising with the family dog, the only other signs of life are from the occasional car or taxi cab driving past. The light from the ornate street lamps reflects back from the gleaming white facades of the elegant homes and the footpaths are bathed in the mellow glow of electric lights shining through the tall windows of the drawing rooms which look out on to the near empty streets.
After walking for some five to ten minutes, we turn into a short street which is dominated at one end by a leafy park. Anwar tells me this where he lives and that the area is popular with Arabs from the Middle-East and the Gulf States. His house is half way along the street and as we climb the marble steps to the colonnaded portico overhanging the front door, I can't help but be impressed. I have heard mention of the almost obscene wealth of some Arabs and it's obvious that Anwar falls into this category.
I suddenly realize I know nothing at all about Anwar. Strictly speaking that's not quite true for he has just told me that he is gay but beyond that I know nothing of his private life. Now I'm left to wonder if he has a wife – or wives - and children. I guess for an Arab appearances are all important and that it's very possible he does have a family.
Foolishly, I'd allowed my imagination to run riot. When Anwar had told me he is gay and then invited me back to his home for coffee, I'd permitted myself to hope for sex with him.
Rightly or wrongly, that is the interpretation I'd put on his invitation and the thought of a torrid sexual encounter with Anwar had both excited and unsettled me.
Every window of his three storied home shows a light and this suggests that someone is at home waiting for his return. As he unlocks the front door, I wonder who is waiting for him on the other side. If it is a wife, then I must be circumspect. My contact with Arabs is minimal but I do know that they restrict contact with their women and I decide that I will take my lead from Anwar. I'm sure that he'll dictate the proper protocols for me to follow.
Anwar steps through the front door and holds it open for me to enter. As I do so, I am stopped in my tracks and I can only gaze in slack-mouthed awe at what confronts me. It is as though I have entered a scene from the Arabian nights. Immediately, I am reminded of the Moorish architecture of Spain and North Africa.
Obviously, the interior of the house has been gutted and no expense spared in recreating this new palace of Oriental splendour. At the centre of the vast entrance foyer a white marble fountain tinkles musically and is surrounded by a floor of multi-coloured tiles laid out in geometric designs. The walls are covered in exquisitely carved friezes of the most delicate and intricate patterns which remind me of my visit to the Alhambra in Granada. I know that Arabs don't portray people or animals in their art and confine their decorations to plants, flowers and the beautiful script of their language. And I have to say the overall effect of all this in Anwar's home completely overwhelms me with its sheer beauty, its simplicity and its exoticism.
Looking beyond the foyer – through the graceful, Moorish arches – I see rooms of incomparable luxury carpeted with deep-piled, multi-hued Persian rugs and divans covered in silken brocades and decadently overburdened with plump cushions.
But all of this pale into insignificance at the spectacle of the naked, young man crouching at our feet. His presence is unexpected and leaves me speechless. Even as I look at him, the young man crawls forward on all fours and kisses Anwar's feet before speaking.
"Welcome home, Master! Your slave is happy to see you and he has missed your presence in his day."
The reference to himself as a slave takes me by surprise. How many times in my wildest fantasies have I seen me in a similar situation? But they were just flights of fancy; the lusty imaginings of my over-active mind. Always I'd told myself such slavery no longer existed; that it had been consigned to history's rubbish bin.
And yet, kneeling on the floor before me is one who acknowledges that he is such a slave. Not surprisingly, my cock springs into full erection!
Anwar ignores his slave's greeting and stands impatiently as the slave removes his shoes and replaces them with slippers made of the softest kidskin. The slave kisses Anwar's slippered feet and then crawls to me. Leaning forward, he kisses my feet and greets me.
"Sir, this slave welcomes you to my Master's home as his honoured guest. If my Master permits me, it will be my greatest pleasure to serve you, Sir."
The touch of the slave's lips on my feet is electric. A violent shiver starts in my toes and tingles upwards through my body. My cock throbs with desperate, new urgency and I fire off the precursory warning shots of an impending ejaculation. Desperately, I will myself to stay in control; I succeed – only just - but I'm acutely aware of the sticky dampness in my boxers.
As the slave removes my shoes and places slippers on my feet, I gaze down on his nakedness and appraise him. I watch the erotic play of his back muscles rippling beneath his flawless skin as he unlaces and removes my shoes. From what I can see of him, I guess that he is a Scandinavian; certainly the closely cropped, corn-gold, blond hair suggests he is from that region.
But it is his ass that attracts my attention. I see the quivering of his tight, deliciously rounded buttocks and as he leans forward once more to kiss my feet it is elevated above his head. Now, I'm afforded a good view of the deep cleft dividing the perfect orbs of his ass-cheeks and I'm left to wonder about the hidden delights of his body. Once more he greets me.
"Welcome Sir, to my Master's home!"
The thing that impresses me about the slave is the sincerity of his words. When he greeted his Master there wasn't any doubting that he meant what he said. He was genuinely happy to see Anwar. And it is the same with me. As he welcomes me into his Master's home and offers to serve me – Anwar permitting – he means every word of his welcome.
"Welcome to my home, Matt!" Anwar ignores the slave kneeling at his feet and speaks to me. "Let's retire to my den and my slave can serve us coffee."
Anwar takes me by the elbow and guides me across the foyer, past the softly splashing fountain and towards an archway in a far wall. Wordlessly, Anwar snaps his finger at his slave who crawls behind us on all fours maintaining a respectful distance from his Master's heels.
We enter through an archway into a room of opulent splendour. Its oriental décor reminds me of the story of Scheherazade and the tales of the Arabian nights and the sudden appearance of a belly-dancer wouldn't have altogether surprised me. The subtle scent of jasmine wafts through the air and standing in a shadowy corner, a golden incense burner diffuses the perfume of aromatic herbs throughout the room to both sooth the mind and restore the soul.
Anwar leads me to a sofa and invites me to sit. Then he takes his place at my side and I wait on his next move. The slave has stopped crawling but remains doglike on all fours with his head bowed low. Like me he is waiting for Anwar's next move. I can't take my eyes away from the slave. I still feel all this is like some erotic dream and that I'll soon awaken to reality.
But it's not a dream! All this is actually happening; I am a witness to these extraordinary events and my mind struggles to take it all in.
Then, in an imperious tone, Anwar issues an instruction to his slave.
"On your feet, slave and stand at display!"
Immediately, the slave leaps to his feet and stands less than a metre and a half in front of our sofa. He moves with incredible speed and it's obvious that he is well practised in obeying any orders given to him by his Master. Gracefully, he draws his body to its fullest height and he places his hands behind his head with his fingers intertwined. This has the effect of tightening his torso so that his taut musculature is prominently displayed. He moves his feet apart to better display his genitals. Lasciviously my eyes roam down over his nude body to his groin but I am disappointed to see that his penis is concealed in a neoprene cock cage. My disappointment is keenly felt.
Despite my disappointment, I am impressed with the slave. But then - who wouldn't be? He is a superb specimen of young manhood and he casts an erotic spell over me; my long suffering cock is straining to break free from the straightjacket of my underclothing.
The slave stands at about six feet two inches and I estimate his weight at somewhere around eleven and a half stones. His head is closely cropped but as I have already noted it is the tawny colour of sun ripened corn with the texture of finely spun silken thread. He keeps his eyes respectfully lowered to the floor and yet I know they'd be the same azure blue colour as the sun-sparkling sea.
The subdued lighting of the room works it magic on the slave as it highlights the plains and valleys of his impressive physique. It serves to erotically accentuate the slave's muscle groups and the subtle play of light and shadow draws my attention to his nude, hairless body. The light falls on the highpoints of his musculature such as his prominent pectorals, the hard, rounded balls of his biceps and the curvaceous mounds of his shapely ass bathing them in a soft, golden glow while the lower points such as the division between his thick chest muscles, his ripped abdominals and his deep ass-cleft are cast in shadow.
The slave's body is without any body hair and even his golden pubes have been removed. This only adds to the overall favourable impression I have of him. The removal of his pubic hair emphasises the low hanging balls – charmingly one is slightly lower than the other - and although it is partly hidden by his cock cage, it's obvious that his penis is also noteworthy. Even from where I sit, I can see that he has been circumcised.
He has a golden collar fastened around his neck - not unlike the ones worn by Mustapha's waiters at the restaurant - and I see a matching cinch resting against the wall of his lower belly which thrusts his cock and balls forward into almost obscene prominence.
"Matt, allow me to present my slave, Sven to you."
So, the slave's name is Sven! At least I'd guessed correctly about him being Scandinavian. But how do I respond to Anwar's invitation? I am simply lost for words. What should I say? Obviously, Anwar does expect me to reply.
I'm confused! Questions keep repeating in my head. Is Sven really a slave or is the relationship between Anwar and him a normal dominant/submissive one carried to a higher degree of commitment? Yes, surely that is it?
I know of other couples where the relationship is dominated by the stronger personality while the weaker one serves very much as a servant. Indeed, I have sometimes craved such a relationship for myself but I'd always drawn back from making a commitment mainly because I'd not yet met a "master" I'd wish to serve unequivocally.
But I have to say, this relationship between Anwar and Sven presents differently; at face value it appears as real. I tell myself each is playing a role and that each is a superb actor and playing his particular part to perfection. To all intents and purposes Anwar is a "real" master and Sven is his devoted slave. But I need confirmation of this. I need to know the truth and so I blurt out.
"Anwar, is Sven really a slave?"
"Of course he is a slave!" I detect a note of impatience in Anwar's voice. "He's a slave in every sense of the word and he's my slave."
"How did you come by him, Anwar? Did you met somewhere and arrange for him to move into your home and act as a slave?"
"Matthew!" Again I sense Anwar's impatience. "Believe me Sven isn't acting as a slave. Sven IS my slave. How did I come by him? Why, I bought him and he cost me a small fortune. I paid €27,500 for him. He didn't come cheaply. But I have to say, as I fuck him, I consider he's worth every euro cent I paid out for him. He's a great fuck!"
"You bought him – for money?" I'm displaying my naivety.
"Of course; money is the usual method of purchasing a slave." Anwar's answer is tinged with sarcasm. "That's the customary method of obtaining a slave unless one receives him as a gift."
"Where did you buy him?"
"I bought Sven at a slave auction in the Middle-East. I regularly attend these slave sales to acquaint myself with the state of the market. I don't usually buy; I visit as an interested spectator. But when I saw Sven standing nude on the display podium I was smitten by him. I examined him and then decided to bid for him. It was a closely fought battle to own him. I had strong opposition from a black African oil tycoon who was as determined as me to own Sven."
My exclamation is all I can manage.
"You are surprised by all this, Matt? Why is this?"
"I'm shocked, Anwar! I thought slavery no longer existed. That it had been outlawed by international treaties."
"To all intents and purposes it has been, Matt. But slavery will never completely disappear. As long as one man wants to own and control another man then slavery will continue to exist. It is simply part of man's nature. It's an immutable fact that some men are born to be masters while others are born to be their slaves. And of course, slavery is very much a part of Arab culture and has been for millennia. Once it was practised openly. Now it is more covert. But believe me when I say that slavery in certain parts of the world still flourishes but is discreetly practised."
My curiosity is aroused – as is my wayward cock. I want to know more about Sven, the slave.
"How did Sven become a slave? Where is he from? What about his family – do they know about his situation?"
My questions just tumble out!
"Those questions might seem important to you Matt. But believe me they are totally irrelevant. A slave-owner has no interest in his slave's past life. Why would he? His only concern is that the slave serves him docilely and obediently. And for the slave, well his past is no longer of any concern to him. Where he was born, who his parents are or what education he has no longer matter to him. Slaves are denied any links to their pasts or their families. All that matters to a slave is the present and the future spent in servitude to his master."
"So you don't know where Sven comes from? And you don't know anything else about his background?"
"Of course not! I don't have any interest in such matters. But looking at him, I'd say he is from Scandinavia, wouldn't you? Slaves from that region are eagerly sought after and fetch high prices at auction."
"Why is that, Anwar?"
"Matt, it's their fair skins, golden hair and blue eyes that make them so popular. It has always been this way for Arabs. Fair-skinned, golden haired, Frankish, male slaves have always attracted keen bidding at a slave auction. Arabs have always seen them as 'exotics' to grace our harems and to be compliant receptacles for our lust and our manly seed. "
"And it was this that attracted you to Sven?"
"Indeed it was, Matt. I have always had a fondness for blond slaves. At home in Maluchistan my father always had several such slaves and I suppose it was there as a youngster that I developed my predilection for slaves with Sven's colouring."
"Anwar, can I ask about your predilection. You mentioned before that you Ahh .... well you know..."
"What are you trying to say Matt? Don't be bashful. You're asking if I fuck my slave. Am I correct?'
"Well yes ... I guess I am but I didn't like to ask. I thought it might be too personal."
"Of course I do Matt! I fuck him all the time. And why wouldn't I? He has the tightest asshole of any slave I've ever owned and I take full advantage of my property. I usually begin and end each day by fucking him. And then there are our delightful interludes in the shower where he kneels before me and takes my cock in his mouth. Believe me; he possesses an exquisite mouth and tongue. And he has a very deep throat."
All this talk about blond-haired, blue eyed slaves disconcerts me. I have both and I guess in Anwar's opinion that would make me the perfect candidate for enslavement. My hair can best be described as dirty blond in colour but it is thick and unruly and I have a fringe that hangs down over my forehead. I have heard it said that this gives me an appealing 'boyish' look. And my eyes are the startling, blue colour of wild cornflowers – this is how my grandmother once described them.
I wonder if I was Anwar's slave would he fuck me too. The thought of that causes my asshole to squirm and gives me a warm tingling sensation in the groin area.
"But enough talk for now Matt. I invited you here for coffee." Turning to Sven, Anwar barks an order. "Slave, away with you and fetch coffee for your Master and his guest. And be quick about it or I'll put a cane to your ass!"
Anwar's mention of putting a cane to Sven's ass arouses me even further. How many times in my erotic fantasies have I imagined a cane biting into my own ass? These are too numerous to remember with accuracy. But the thought of a master caning me is a powerful one and once again my leakage adds to the cold stickiness in my boxer shorts.
While Sven is away brewing the coffee, Anwar and I continue to talk.
"Matt, no doubt you find this is all very bewildering?"
"Anwar to say I'm bewildered is an understatement. I had no idea that there are still real slaves in the world until I saw Sven. My senses are reeling at the thought of that."
"Matt, to be truthful, Sven isn't the first slave you saw. The waiters at Mustapha's restaurant are all slaves as are those who work behind the scenes in the kitchens. I'm surprised you didn't pick up on that. You never noticed their slave collars?"
"You're kidding, surely? And yes, I did see their collars but I thought they were part of their uniforms."
"Matt, I never jest about such matters. Yes indeed, they are all slaves belonging to Mustapha. And you are correct. The collar is very much a part of the slave's uniform. The natural state of the slave is complete nudity apart from his neck and cock collars or any other adornments his master decides upon."
"How is it possible that Mustapha can keep so many slaves and it goes undetected?"
"It's quite easy, Matt. You see the slaves have been trained to accept their servitude and they no longer look to be free. In Mustapha's situation, his slaves live on the premises of his restaurant. There is a slave dormitory on the top floor of the building where the slaves are housed. Of course, when they aren't working they are kept naked and in chains– purely as a precaution against any temptation to escape, you understand. Mustapha's two adult sons act as his slave-keepers and guards. They also live above the restaurant and are always there to control his slaves. But to date, I'm not aware that Mustapha's slaves have ever given him any cause for concern."
"Anwar, this is all so... "
"What are you trying to say Matt? This is all so unexpected?"
"I guess so, Anwar. It's just so hard for me to get my head around all of this."
"Ah! My slave has returned with our coffee."
Suddenly, the delicious aroma of freshly brewed Turkish coffee fills the room and our conversation about Mustapha's slaves comes to a halt. I hope the pause is only temporary as there are so many other things I want to know and so many questions I'd like to ask of Anwar. But he is my host and I must wait for him to take the lead.
"You may serve my guest first, slave!"
I watch Sven as he pours my coffee into a delicate porcelain cup. He stands with his back to me and perhaps it's the way the light is shining on his body but for the first time I see the criss-crossed pattern of fading stripes running across his bare ass. Some stripes run in parallel lines which indicate to me that they were very carefully placed there – no doubt by his Master – while others are more haphazard and are angled over his ass cheeks. Some of the stripes are barely visible; others are more recent and show as fading pink against the whiteness of his skin. I wonder what misdemeanours warranted such harsh punishment.
Sven approaches where I sit and gracefully sinks to his knees before me. Respectfully, he bows his head and holds my coffee at arms' length before him almost as an offering and invites me to drink.
"Sir, here is your coffee. I hope it meets with your satisfaction and that you enjoy it, Sir."
As I take the cup from the slave, I thank him.
"Thank you Sven! I'm sure I'll find it to my liking. It smells delicious."
"Please Matt! Don't thank him. You NEVER thank a slave for obeying an order or for doing his duty. Thanking slaves only confuses them. And please don't call him by his name."
Anwar's rebuke stings my pride. After all, I was acting as I would in any similar situation. But then I remind myself this isn't a normal situation. I have never been served by a slave before.
"I'm sorry Anwar," I manage to blurt out. "I didn't know that I wasn't meant to thank Sv..., sorry, I mean your slave. If I can't use his name, what then should I call him?"
"Refer to him by what he is – 'slave'! Or you can interchange that with the more humiliating, 'boy' if you prefer it. Either is acceptable in addressing a slave. Matt, you need to remember that you must never show any kindness to a slave – whatsoever. It only confuses and unsettles him."
"How does it confuse a slave to show him kindness, Anwar?"
"Matt, a slave only learns through hard training, strict control and stern discipline. Fear should motivate a slave in all his actions. Fear of his master's anger at his shortcomings and fear of the harsh punishment he'll receive for any mistakes he makes. A slave's mind needs to be centred on those two things. A slave works best if he knows that he'll be punished harshly for his mistakes or failures. Showing a slave kindness only confuses him and you run the risk that the slave will see your kindness to him as a weakness of which he can take advantage."
Anwar takes the coffee cup proffered to him by his slave and orders him to his feet and to adopt the modified slave position. I'm unfamiliar with slave etiquette or the protocols that govern their actions and I watch intently as Sven obeys his Master's instructions. He stands with his body erect and his feet about fifteen to eighteen inches apart. His hands are firmly clasped behind his back and rest on his ass. His appears to be looking at a particular spot on the wall in front of him but I notice that his eyes are trained on Anwar and me. Obviously, he is ready to step forward without prompting from us to refill our coffee cups or to offer us a tasty morsel to eat. As we eat and drink, I ask Anwar about disciplining his slave.
"Tell me, Anwar. How often do you discipline your slave?"
"Matt, I punish him as often as is necessary. When I first bought him, I caned him, on average, twice a day. I'm a firm believer that a new slave has to suffer the cane at least twice a day until he becomes docile and obedient and conversant with my needs. Nowadays, he's very much a tame slave and I don't need to punish him as often as I did in the past. Which reminds me – haven't you something to tell me slave?"
"Yes Master! I'm sorry Master but I was waiting for you to give me permission to speak Master."
"You have my permission! Speak, slave."
"Master, this morning I offended you by laying out the wrong business shirt and tie for you to wear. Master you were too pressed for time to punish me then and you instructed me to remind you of my mistake when you returned home this evening and to beg for my punishment."
"Then do so! Slave, beg to be punished."
Sven falls to his knees and crawls to his Master's and kisses his feet in abject submission.
"Master, I have failed in my duties to you and I have angered you. Please Master; your slave begs to be punished."
"Yes slave, you have angered me – grievously - and punishment is called for. But how will I punish you?"
"In whatever way my Master considers is appropriate, Master."
"A caning is called for I think. Away with you slave and fetch my canes. And be quick about it or I'll add to your punishment."
To be continued................................