Here's part 15 of my story, that you've been running in gay/male/authoritarian. This story is concluded now - thanks again. Pete
FOUR THE SAME by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part Fifteen
As I sit here in the gentle morning sunlight, looking out over the splendid creation that is my estate and gardens, I'm tempted to keep slipping back into a reverie, remembering all those key points of the last twenty years that have shaped and focused my life. I am old now, even I know that, and my remaining time here is all too short, as the doctors have told me. And even with my vast wealth, there's no hope of remission from the tumour that is slowly, but surely, killing me. Last week at the AGM I finally relinquished control of the bank, to Andrew, and now all I have left to do is to put things in proper order before my death.
It was indeed an exciting time all those years ago in the first few moths that the slaves were on my estate.
In spite of the physical restraints on them with the collars, and the much greater control exerted by the prospect of them being "taken" again and returned to the mines, I was still worried that they might consider it a good trade, to bring me down in exchange for a few weeks of freedom. Even in the most important business meetings I would sometimes find my mind wandering and beginning to worry about this! But, I suppose, their slave mentality was already well established as a result of their previous experiences as pleasure slaves, and so they were less likely to "rebel" than ordinary, "free" men might have been. So they are still here after all this time, still working hard on further extensions to the gardens - I can see the spring sunshine glinting off their bodies in the distance, as they are probably sweating as a result of their labours (and are in their normal warm weather uniforms of brief satin shorts).
About three years in to their lives here I discovered that the "dog control" system had broken during the week, and was in somewhat of a panic to get if fixed - until Marc, ever the one for a joke, boldly walked into the house gardens in full sight of me. It seems the slaves had known about it for some time, but had not chosen to escape - an interesting comment, perhaps, on the way that men can be changed to see themselves as perpetual slaves, and no longer as "free men". I never had the system repaired, but I decided to keep the chains around the slaves' necks as a reminder of their status - it never hurts to reinforce some mental conditioning with a physical symbol, I think. And, anyway, like their brands, the slave collars gave me an erotic charge, irrespective of what they did for the slaves.
It was difficult in those first weeks, though. I was not here for most of the time, and of course it was my late wife's plan for the gardens that they were supposed to execute. On pain of the most severe punishment I ordered the slaves to speak only Arabic when they were not in their slave pen at night, when they would be allowed to speak English if they wished.
And I told my wife that I had recruited these four men to work for her, but that they were illegal immigrants from some East European hell hole and that they had only limited knowledge of our language: she could give them simple orders, but he should not distract them by attempting conversation.
I do not know whether my wife fully believed this story, but, like so many things between us, it was a convenient fiction to which we could both subscribe to allow for our normal civilised existence. I did notice, however, that she was beginning to "spoil" the slaves, by giving them little "treats", and by backing off from agreed completion dates and so on as, she told me, "those poor boys do work so hard".
It was my practice to come down from London on Friday evenings - a process much facilitated when the bank acquired a helicopter as a companion for my jet - and after changing, would go down to the slave pen to see how the slaves had progressed during the week. They understood that on that night they were to delay their nightly bath after work, as I enjoyed the spectacle: as I have told you, there was no plumbing or anything in the slave pen, and so they had a big tin bath that was pulled in front of the blazing log fire in the winter. The water was heated over the fire, then, in turn, each slave would lower himself into the bath and his brothers would help him clean himself, before his place was taken by one of the others. The sight of the men's beautiful bodies, the reflections of the flickering flames from their wet skin, and the general atmosphere of happy camaraderie all combined to make a most erotic spectacle, and when they were all clean and the bath had been cleared away, I often orchestrated a small entertainment to amuse me further.
It's interesting - I noticed it then, and it's still true today - that even though the slaves were basically so alike physically, even though I had not required all their hair to be removed to make them the complete clones that had been the case when I first saw them, they all had those interesting personality quirks that differentiated one from another. Matt liked to be seen to be the leader, to be in charge, in control. He wanted to be on top when they were fucking, and he thought it was he who made the running in all important decisions. Ray almost never said anything, and seemed to be totally under the control of Matt, but, I observed, he actually ran most things - the quiet "suggestion" to Matt (which he promptly adopted as his own), the wise words inserted into a debate amongst all four of them that made for harmony, but also shifted things in the way he wanted. I've often thought that we are too ready to categorise men into "tops" and "bottoms", and the presumption is always that it's the "tops" who're in control - but is it?
It was much the same with Steve and Marc - Steve always liked to fuck, and was the one who took decisions. Marc was amusing, witty, but "light weight", and this spilled over into their sex where he always had to "bottom" for Steve. But Steve really seemed to care for Marc, even when he recovered from his trauma, and was always perhaps excessively concerned for his fellow's well-being.
I liked watching their personalities bend to accommodate my orders, and as I got older and my physical desires became less strong, I got perhaps more pleasure from seeing their reactions - even though they tried to conceal them - when I required Marc to fuck Matt, and Ray to fuck Steve, than I did from actually seeing their strong, muscular bodies actually engaged together.
One Friday night, shortly after they were installed and I was beginning to relax, knowing that my scheme was working, they actually offered me a piece of cake to eat as I sat there and watched them! My wife had baked one of her renowned Victoria sandwiches and given them a whole one, and they cut the first piece for me. I thought they were actually going to dare to say something when I took all the cake, except my piece, and threw it into the flames - I did not want them treated specially, as if they were jobbing contractors who might be offered a mug of tea in the afternoon. These were slaves, and they were required to work hard because of that, not because of any tea or additional reward that they might get. A free man needs "rewards", but a slave works because that is what his destiny is, and I did not wish to upset the natural order of things.
Even though they did not dare to react openly, their body language for the rest of the evening was however sullen, and they did not take part as enthusiastically as they should in the fucking session that I required them to do for my amusement. I probably should have caned them to remind them of their proper position, but it was, after all, mostly the fault of my wife and so I relented a little and, after I had eaten my slice of the cake, I allowed them to lick the sugar from my fingers as a special treat. There's something special, I always think, in having a naked man at your feet, suckling your fingers, and I can assure you that a group of four of them, their bodies intertwined, adds hugely to the enjoyment.
After that I needed to remind my wife again that these men were "illegal workers" and were not to be shown favours - they were there only to work, and she agreed. Nevertheless, after all this time I still wonder if this actually happened: when my wife died, ten years later, the hearse stopped at the gate of the estate and the slaves carried her coffin up the steep hills to the cliff top where her remains now rest. They dug her grave, located a special piece of rock from the beach, and laboriously carved it themselves with the simple inscription "She loved these gardens".
I couldn't help noticing that on that dreadful day they were crying as much as I myself was, and sometimes, even now, I will see them sitting here silently, as I do, remembering her and her vision for this beautiful place.
We all lose those that are dear to us - it's part of the human condition - and I do not intend to dwell further on my loss. It was only a year later, too, that my friend the sheikh died, and as we were the same age, I began to have those feelings of my own mortality that occasionally sweep across us all. Fortunately by that time Andrew had an even closer relationship with his eldest son, the crown prince, and our business was not at all affected - indeed, it flourished under the new regime.
It had become apparent that Andrew was never going to move back to London. After his three years of running our branch in the sheikhdom, I counselled him to move back to another important job in the bank's head office, but in a meeting of unusual frankness he told me that he would leave, rather than do that. His life, as an owner of a large house and slaves, was so much better than he could ever hope for in London, and he was not prepared to give it up. At the same time the sheikh began dropping hints that he did not want Andrew moved, as he was so pleased with the way that Andrew was "organising his evening's entertainment". I knew, of course, that Andrew was using the sheikh as his fuck toy, and evidently the old man enjoyed this attention from a young stud, so I was in a dilemma: If I insisted that Andrew move he might well leave and simply stay and "amuse" the sheikh full time; equally, our excellent business might disappear if we upset the sheikh.
Andrew, of course, had the solution. As we were the central bank of the sheikhdom, we should move the "executive offices" of the bank from London to there. Most of the staff would remain in the bank's tower in London, but "key decision makers" would occupy executive offices in the sheikhdom, and an additional aircraft would be bought to make commuting easy.
After much heated debate in the board, I ordered the move, and it worked out even better than I might have hoped: as well as forcing the resignation of several senior people who had said they would "never" work outside London and who I had been scheming to dismiss, it enabled Andrew to proceed up the corporate ladder whilst maintaining the lifestyle to which he was so admirably suited. Other Arab countries, seeing our commitment to the sheikhdom, so rare in "western" banks, treated us with a new respect and even started to give us their business, so helping to further consolidate and grow our position on the world stage.
I had been discussing with Andrew what would happen on the sheikh's death - a senior executive always has "succession planning" in mind, after all, but he assured me there was no problem. It was only some months later that I learned the truth: the sheikh had confided to Andrew his concern about the lifestyle of his eldest son, the crown prince: he was living the typical "playboy" life in all the world's flesh pots, gambling heavily, smoking, drinking, and even being photographed with a succession of "starlets" and "personalities" who, the newspapers hinted, he was "romantically engaged with".
The crown prince was summoned back for a meeting with his father, on pain of losing his free access to money, and once back in the sheikhdom the sheikh ordered Andrew to begin "training" his son. I never learned the exact details, as neither Andrew nor the sheikh would divulge them, but I understand that Andrew's skill with his cock, fists and the whip were all used lavishly (and probably to excess). I could imagine the scene, with the sheikh sitting watching impassively as Andrew, in his favourite leather wear, tore into the crown prince, who was then just about Andrew's age.
I noticed thereafter that the crown prince deferred in everything to Andrew. If we were all alone together, he would always sit at Andrew's feet, rather as a slave would. Whatever Andrew had done to "tame" the man, it worked as he never again travelled abroad, vanished from the gossip of the world, and fathered five sons in reasonably quick succession, much to the joy of the sheikh. One night, when he had perhaps drunk rather more than usual, Andrew told me that the crown prince was in fact like so many men who were afraid of their own sexuality - they put up a huge public "display" of their supposedly manly virtues, when in fact what they really wanted was another strong, dominant man to take control of them. Andrew had done this, and when the sheikh required the crown prince to actually fuck a woman in order to breed, it had been Andrew who had had to make him do it. "You know, sir", he told me, "that man who had supposedly bedded half of Hollywood, had almost no idea when it really came down to it. His father and I made him strip, then had to really direct him to fuck the women that the sheikh had chosen as his wives! He's glad it's all over, actually, as he much prefers the feeling of my cock inside him, and the discipline that I bring to his life - and his body!".
To end this memoir I suppose it only remains for me to tell you about Darren. When you last heard of him he was my personal slave when I visited the sheikhdom, living in Andrew's house. Now seventeen, his strict training had turned him from a rebellious teenager into the perfect slave, always alert for the needs of his owner. And whilst these changes had been effected in his personality, the physical aspects of the education had also transformed his body into a thing of sheer delight - the slender boy had become an exciting young man, with heavier musculature, delightfully proportioned limbs, and the promise of even more to come as he matured further.
I was perhaps concerned, though, that the "education" had gone too far. Whilst I had not enjoyed the rebellious skateboard boy who had been so callous to me, I did not altogether relish the creature he had become: he was now so eager to please, so very concerned that he might miss some signal from me, so terrified of punishment for failing in some way, that he was perhaps a little "nervy" and lacked the self-confidence that is one of the attributes I enjoy in a man that I am fucking. Andrew, of course, did not see this as a problem, as he enjoyed disciplining all the slaves around him into a state of utter abject terror at the thought of failing to please their master, and required complete, total obedience from all of them.
Whilst Darren was in some ways very satisfactory in bed - he was always told that he was not permitted any sexual release for a week before my visits, and so he was "primed" and "charged" when I fucked him and was instantly ready to shower me with huge amounts of cum if I even toyed with his cock. But, on the other hand, he lacked any degree of spontaneity about our couplings - he was, of course, always fucked by me, but even so he seemed incapable of initiating any action, of daring even to suggest whether I should fuck him on his knees or his back. I began to tire of this meek total subservience, and wanted more from a man whose body I was enjoying.
He knew, of course, about the terrible experiences of the four slaves in the opal mine, and I used essentially the same argument to convince him that he would be a slave in my apartment in London on pain of being "taken" and immediately sent down the mines should he ever be found to have escaped, or cause me an embarrassment. I had the apartment modified so that there was a large gym for him to work out in, and when I left for the office in the morning I always took the precaution of totally disabled the phones and PCs, and of locking him in behind the thick soundproof doors of my eerie.
It was in many ways very satisfactory - as I've told you, I could no longer frequent the pickup places for the odd bout of casual sex now that I was a famous personality, and having Darren always on hand for my sexual relief was much better. But I did begin to worry that the lad was getting "gym muscles", rather than a proper working body of the kind that only harsh physical labour can produce, and the lack of access to fresh air did not, I thought, do him good. Consequently I took the bold step of allowing him to accompany me to the country estate for the weekend - a minor risk, I suppose - and this made for dramatic improvements in him.
I told my wife he was another "illegal immigrant", and he spent all weekend with the four slaves. This in itself was interesting for me, as the contrast between their sturdy, hard tanned bodies and Darren's more slender, pale one as they all bathed and then fucked for my pleasure added a new layer of excitement, and many more opportunities for me to produce new variations on "who does what to whom". He had to do the hard physical labour that the other four did all weekend, which helped perfect his body, and I think that exposure to these more self-reliant slaves did his personality good - he began to unlearn some of Andrew's harsh conditioning, and came to understand that it was possible for a slave to take some initiatives sexually, provided his owner did not object.
Always one to experiment, though, when Darren was twenty I tired of using him just in these ways and decided that I would like to turn him into a much more complete "companion" slave for myself, which would require him to be properly educated. He had of course had no proper education so far, except in slave skills, as he had consistently avoided school in favour of "hanging out" with his friends, and skateboarding. But he was not unintelligent, and I determined that he should get a university degree to provide a proper grounding for him as a companion for me - economics and business was an obvious area to study, as it would interest me, but I took a great deal of effort to get him into a university, lacking, as he did, any of the necessary qualifications. As I recall, it cost the bank tens of millions of pounds in an endowment for a new chair, and much coded conversation with the vice chancellor, before one of the UK's most prestigious universities offered him a place.
I think it was hardest for Darren in the first year. All those boys from school knew far more than he did, although, of course, he was far more skilled than they were in so many other areas. He was inclined to give up, and not to study properly, until I took control and used those very same learning techniques that had turned him into a slave to help him become a good scholar. As we lay together at night I now had the added thrill of feeling the cane marks I had made over his back and buttocks, as well as the ever-present delight of his brands.
Darren did not find university life easy - as well as all the course work and the amount of "catching up" he had to do, he was still my slave and he needed to exercise hard to maintain his body, and to work with the other four every weekend. In the vacations there was no time off for him, only the unrelenting physical labour on the estate, and his continuing duties to keep my apartment clean and to pleasure me in bed.
He was surprised, I think, to do so well, and could probably have had an academic career based on his results at the end of the three year course. But that was not open to him as I began to use him as my personal assistant at the office, as well as my apartment. Sometimes, if I had problems sleeping and was awake in the middle of the night, I would squeeze his balls to awaken him, and then we would talk in that companionable way that's probably only possible between two men who are intertwined together at three or four o'clock in the morning. He would then amuse me by telling me how the young women in the office would "come on" to him in the staff restaurant on those days when I was at a business lunch - his stunning good looks, perfect body, and well-cut expensive clothes all said "catch of the day" to them, and they would flirt outrageously in the hope that he would do something about it.
By the time Darren was twenty five and I was approaching seventy, my desire for constant sex had somewhat diminished. I still enjoyed watching Darren and the four slaves perform, but no longer had a strong desire to participate. He had served me well for almost ten years, and I decided that I would give him his freedom. To my utter astonishment he fell to his knees, threw his arms around my body, and pressed his face into my crotch, as if seeking comfort there. He was almost sobbing, as he told me he had no desire to leave, and only wanted to serve me, and that it would be cruel to send him away from me, and the four slaves, now. But sometimes a master needs to be cruel to be kind, and I insisted.
A conventional career would almost certainly not suit Darren - he had been too close to the real power in the organisation for too long to be able to make a "proper" career in the bank, and probably would not be suited to a conventional life in most organisations. To help him make up his mind I sent him to reflect in the country for a time, working on the estate, and then to the sheikhdom to consult with Andrew. As ever, clever Andrew found the perfect solution that maximises Darren's skills and experience! And he persuaded me to not free Darren, but to allow him wide latitude to act independently, whilst returning to me the profits on his labours.
Without boring you with the details I will reveal that he has a most satisfactory position, that returns me many millions of pounds a year in untaxed revenues! Effectively, he visits those very wealthy men around the globe who have nothing further on which to spend their money - they have the trophy wives, the aeroplanes, houses, jewels, cars..... And yet they need something more. Darren, who is used to dealing with the super-rich, can speak to them on their own terms and advises them of the possibilities of slave ownership. He then discusses with them their requirements - or should that be desires? - as other than a vague feeling that it would be exciting to have complete and total control over another man, they have little conception of what is actually involved. As Darren said to me once, "Sometimes, sir, they think I'm some sort of fraud, just after their money with an elaborate scam. But when I strip off, show them my name that you had tattooed on me, and then let them finger the brand on my arm and my ass, they begin to understand what it means. When I am then prepared to do anything - anything at all - that they can think of sexually, as that is one of the roles of a slave, they begin to get the message."
Armed with a "requirements statement", Darren then searches out a suitable slave from somewhere in the world - Australians are currently very favoured, I understand, because of their healthy lifestyle and good bodies, and arranges for the man to be "taken" to the sheikhdom. It amuses Andrew to participate in the training, of course, and the new owners are always invited to visit to see their new slave being "conditioned" - they are put up in Andrew's house as part of the package offered, and are, as you would expect, always astonished at the number of slaves there and the uses to which they are put.
So everyone is happy, and on his frequent business trips to London to interview clients and to search out slaves, I still get to use Darren - not that I can now accomplish much sexually, but he always does me the courtesy of refraining from sex for as many days a possible, given the need to impress new clients, before a visit. Then, as we lie in bed at night, he holds me in his arms, and rubs his erect cock up and down my belly and chest until he shoots those huge loads of delicious cum all over us both.
I, too, will be buried here on the estate, in that special spot that we picked out just over ten years ago for my wife that offers the best view of our endeavours. The estate has of course become world famous, especially after my wife insisted we open it three days a year to the general public, for charity. In later years the sheer clamour for places on those days has become so great as everyone wants to see this, hailed as the greatest achievement in world gardening, has meant high ticket prices and enormous waiting lists. Once it was apparent that we had created this treasure, I therefore offered the estate to the National Trust, so that it can be preserved for all time in our memory (together with a generous endowment, which I can easily afford thanks to the stunning sums that Darren's business empire is producing for me).
As I sit here, looking back on my life, I am hugely pleased that I have achieved three things. I have build the mightiest business corporation, spanning the globe, that has ever been seen. I have been instrumental in creating a new wonder of the world, something that will be marvelled at long after my achievements at the bank are long forgotten. But, and this is the achievement I am most proud of, and one which so few men ever succeed in: I have taken my fantasies, and lived them. Unlike so many other men I did not lie awake at night fantasising about sex, and about controlling men: I went out and did it. Even as I look down now I can see my four slaves, still toiling away, still keeping their bodies in that state of perfection I demand, for my pleasure tonight.
But there will be no pleasure tonight. When I learned three months ago that a brain tumour was slowly but surely killing me, I determined to remain in control until the end. You know I resigned as chairman of the bank, and I made arrangements to hand the estate to the National Trust (together with provisions that I believe they will find a little unusual, relating to the "long time estate workers!"). I had one last night of amusement with Darren, hinting at him that he was not to be sad when he learned bad news some time in the near future.
I have no fear of death - it's just like sleep. There is no big juju-land in the sky, where judgement awaits. But even if there is, I have nothing to fear: I have always done the right thing: hundreds of thousands of people have good jobs and have had their lives enriched through my business efforts. I have made many people happy - in particular my wife, and the sheikh. I saved four men from certain death in the opal mines, and I rescued Darren from a life that could only have ended in disaster - like so many of his class, uneducated and living in inner London, he would have ended up in prison, or living out some squalid existence on social security with a fat hag as a wife and squalling children.
Everyone wants a piece of immortality, and I therefore constructed this work as my monument. I chose Steve, sensible, thoughtful, Steve, to fill in some gaps and spent some time listening to him as he recounted his part of the story (without access to books or writing materials for so long, the slaves can no longer remember how to write for themselves). It will be released by my lawyers only long after all those chief characters in it are dead. And when I finish typing this paragraph, I will take one long last look at this view that I have come to love so much: the stunning natural beauty of the estate, the quiet place where my wife's body rests, and the four slaves toiling away. Then I will make my way slowly, very slowly and painfully, back to the house.
The pain killers they proscribed to help control the side effects of my condition are very strong: they tell me that one per day is the maximum permitted dose, but I have eight left. I will be in control of my own destiny at the end, as always. My remaining wish is that those slaves whose lives I have cherished and shaped for so long will be properly appreciative, and will carve some suitable monument for me, as they did for my wife - at the end, that's all that's left, isn't it: loving memories, in those you have to leave behind?
THE END