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part 8

Chapter 8 – The military butcher

Life is like a lamp flame; it needs a little oil now and then.

(Kashmiri proverb)

Gianni Centini came into the study to place a number of files about six inches high on the desk beside my left elbow. It was as if he had been waiting in the wings for the precise moment for me to finish with Greg Logan, my eyes and ears at opal mine.

As assistant to my secretary, Ben Trant, Gianni looks after correspondence and filing of which there seems always to be more and more each week, and never less and less. He knelt down on the marble floor beside my chair and placed his hands behind his back in the ‘waiting’ position. He usually handles the final stage of the accounts, those of the various Heads of Household whose procurement requirements were a weekly and ongoing issue.

I rested my hand on Gianni’s shoulder as I continued my reading at the desk, letting my thumb stroke his neck which felt warm under my touch. He seemed to draw closer to me and out of the corner of my eye I saw the flickering of a smile on his face. As one of the few overtly gay persons at the Palaces, he was a good looking Italian slave whose quietness was only matched by the accuracy of his work. His immediate superior, Ben himself, was the first one ever at my Palaces to say that he was gay. It was one of those things of gaydar that Ben and he had connected.

I let my hand slide down on his smooth chest and felt firmness of his right nipple, tweaked it, and was rewarded with an audible sigh. The slave’s body was now definitely touching my thigh. I sighed. Too much of a good thing can be bad for you and I closed what I was reading and let my eye fall on my Palace homework of the day.

‘I suppose this has to be done today, Gianni.’

‘Yes, Master. Best to do it today and to sleep soundly tonight knowing that it is done,’ he said with a shy smile looking up at me. I think that Gianni is really terrified of me for some reason and that he conceals his terror with smiles.

I started to sign the first of some ten or so cheques of the day and handed each one duly signed and its covering documentation back to Gianni. This was followed by some batches of letters and invitation acceptances. It was all over and done with in less than fifteen minutes.

I looked at Gianni still on his knees beside me as he sorted the last of the documents, and thought that frequently we never appreciate what is right on our own doorstep.


‘Yes, Master.’

‘Lie up on the desk. On your back,’ I said rising from my chair and unbuttoning my flies.

Unhesitatingly, the slave rose from his knees in one fluid movement, showing no sign of having been inconvenienced by being on his knees on the marble floor for near on twenty minutes, and put his buttocks on the edge of the desk and lay back.

‘Lift your legs over your head.’

The slave complied holding on to his ankles, the light of evening shining on his gloriously tanned smooth and hairless skin. His perfect skin from clean and healthy living at the Palace belied his thirty two years and I reflected on how well he had worked for the past years under Ben Trant four years his junior, but the more dominant slave in the partnership union. Already Gianni’s penis was beginning to lengthen as it was appraised by his own body itself of impending sex.

I touched Gianni’s most intimate of sexual spots and found that it was moist. I smelt the tip of my finger and found that it was Aloe sap. I would have been disappointed were my slave to have come to me without being ready at the same time to pleasure my needs.

My cock was hard, and I placed its tip at the puckered entrance to Gianni’s anus and with one firm push inserted it to the hilt. I brought forward his legs and let them rest on my shoulders. His hands sought out the edge of the desk to give himself that extra leverage and grasp. I felt the muscles of his anus tighten and relax. He had clearly taken Frank Kovac’s courses in sex techniques or alternatively had some good ones of his own; but from the manner of the technique I guessed it was Frank’s. Gianni was breathing deeply. His eyes were fixed on mine, intent on my pleasure. There was the slightest scent of perspiration rising from his genitals, mingled with that of aloe.

It was not to be a long fuck as I could already feel my juices rising. I put my hands at the back of Gianni’s neck and pulled him forward toward me, so that only his buttocks were now on the edge of the desk and the full pressure of the tightness of his asshole was on my cock. The point of no-return arrived and I was over the precipice.

‘I am not going to bring you off. I leave that to Ben this evening.’

‘Thank you, Master.’

‘Now clean me up with your mouth.’

The slave was on his knees again in a trice and his tongue washed my glans and shaft until it was perfectly clean of my cum and the aloe sap with which Gianni had so liberally anointed his own chute.

‘Do you always come lubricated when you come to meet me?’

‘Yes, Master, always. I never know when I will have the honour to serve your needs.’

‘What does Ben say to this?’

‘Say, Master? Nothing. He inspects me every morning to ensure that I am adequately lubricated, and then I check him the same.’

‘Do you now?’

That was a thought worth remembering!

It was one of my lawyer based in the Cayman Islands, Josh Green’s, agencies working in Eastern Europe that found the link or rather the lack of it in the case of Gjon Vlorju, this mercenary whose photo had so frightened one of the kitchen staff. The mercenary’s details on my file, under the false name, had started just two years previously. Prior to that there had been no one of the name who matched any of the facts, but once Josh Green had Gjon Vlorju’s true name, it was then another matter. His had stopped upon his disappearance from the face of the earth two years previously – matching precisely the creation of his new identity.

A search of various international fingerprint databases, which cost a considerable amount of money, produced the facts that he had been a captain in one of the many militias during a particular bloody time on the border of Albania and Macedonia and who had been responsible for two particularly bloody massacres, had led the rape and murder of entire adult and children segments of local populations. He had then disappeared when his militia group was cornered by UN and international forces.

When I read subsequently the report my blood ran cold and I did not want to believe what I was reading until I saw a blurred photograph of the man. Despite the quality of the photo, there was no denying that it was the slave, now in my ownership, who now worked in the opal mine.

I have always said that what a slave did prior to arrival in my possession was history as far as I was concerned and not a factor in his treatment, but my half-gelding of forty two mercenary slaves and various prisoner slaves had punctured that particular philosophy. Now the presence of a war criminal of the worst sort at the opal mine meant I had to take another stance.

I decided to myself that no one at the Palaces apart from Greg Logan and Ben Trant, my secretary, would know of these facts. Secondly, I gave an instruction to Zabian al-Kibbe, the General Manager, via Greg who was going back to the mine inside two days, ordering that Gjon Vlorju should never leave the opal mine, not now, now in five years’ time, not ever; that he was never to be relieved of his shackles and lastly, on the vet’s next visit he was to lose his other ball. He would never rape another human being.

I was sitting under one of the pergolas in the garden when Marko, whom I had summoned, arrived. I patted the wooden seat beside me and this quiet slave from the kitchens sat down on its very edge with his hands on his knees, as if to be able to spring off it at a moment’s notice.

I put my arm around his waist and pulled him back on it and closer to me. His skin was warm and as I pulled him even closer, Marko smelled of cinnamon.

‘You smell of spices, Marko.’

He held up his hands and smelt them, and with one of his beatific smiles, said, ‘Yes, Master. I was making a new ice-cream for you. Now, it won’t be a surprise.’

I smiled at one of my favourite slaves with his short dark hair and fine lustrously black eyebrows.

‘You got a bad fright a while back, Marko.’

He looked at me and I could feel the shiver that went through his body. He just nodded his head at me.

‘You saw somebody from your past.’

Again a shiver up against my body and my arm around his waist.

‘Gjon Vlorju will never trouble you again. He will never hurt you or anyone else again. Do you understand?’

Marko nodded. His dark eyes fathomless as they wanted to believe my words. I repeated myself.

‘He will never hurt you or anyone else again.’

Marko slipped an arm around my waist and laid his head on my chest.

‘He was very bad, Master. I saw him kill people and he used to laugh as he did it. He was called the ‘butcher’.’

‘The days when he could do that are over. You don’t need to fear him any more, Marko.’

‘Thank you, Master.’

This was one of the few times where I had actually not ignored the slave’s past. As far as I was concerned, Gjon Vlorju would live out the rest of his days at the opal mine, never knowing precisely why he was always being kept there, never knowing why he would never leave it, never knowing why he was permanently in shackles, never knowing why he had been fully castrated.

Was I being vindictive? Not at all, I thought to myself. Gjon Vlorju’s present state and predicament had been written in the blood of his own actions. I had just sealed off of all possible further damage to others and to myself. His past had caught up with him through the eyes of an ice-cream maker.

That particular day on which I had spoken with Marko, Flavio, my chef, had worked his usual magic and had given us a dinner menu starting with a cold soupe de tous les légumes du potager, deliciously cool, on what was a warm November evening, and chosen from all the farms’ vegetables of the day, followed by poulet au vinaigre de vin, a light casserole of chicken in white wine vinegar, and finishing with a iced selection including Marko’s latest cinnamon flavoured ice-cream.

This was also the first of the trial meals where I had the serving slaves in the Palace wear a new table uniform of a Greek style white short-sleeved chiton or tunic which hung down to above the knees and was cinched at the waist by a corded gold braid.

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