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part 15

Chapter 15 – The slave's punishment
The existence of the sea means the existence of pirates.
(Malay proverb)

When Dr. Miraldo Coelho presented me in his office with the medical
files, I was not a happy camper. The first unopened file was that of
my rapist. The others were of slaves who had been treated for badly
bruised back passages or who had even required stitches.
`How are you feeling today, Jonathan?' he had asked upon my arrival
as I undressed to let him examine me again.
`It hurts less. I did not sleep well though. I should probably go to
bed early again tonight.'
I had awakened in the early hours bathed in sweat, my mind reeling
after a disturbing vision of being encased in ice crystals, feeling
them melt from the heat of my body, the water of the `Antarctic'
entering my nose and mouth. Lying awake I had waited for the panic to
subside, and had only fallen asleep again as grey twilight announced
the morning.
Miraldo had confirmed that the bruises still looked ugly, but that
the healing process was underway, and applied a salve.
As I sat across from the young Brazilian doctor, I just looked at
the unopened files.
`I can leave you, if you wish, Jonathan, while you read them.'
`There is no possibility of a mismatch on this one,' I said and laid
my hand on the first file.
`Fortunately no, when you read three of the other files, you will
see why I say `fortunately' and not `unfortunately'. The DNA matches.
It is quite fortuitous that Yves is doing his research because the
normal official slave files don't yet include DNA. Physical
characteristics, blemishes, scars, tattoos, yes, but generally not yet
DNA. Our Palace files now do so as a matter of course.'
Yves Fournier is technically Miraldo's boss at the Palace, but the
two work hand in glove and as Miraldo loves the clinical work of the
daily surgeries, he leaves Yves to his research.
I opened the first slave's file and a stranger looked up at me from
the colour photos. I breathed a sigh of relief. In one way, it was not
a slave that I knew intimately or well, though he now knew me both
intimately and well.
Yes, I did know him in that I had bought him at al-Qatim with three
others when the Lime Palace needed more field hands. I did not ever
remember having spoken to him, nor having seen him in a line-up asking
for anything or saying anything to me.
I looked at his standard photos and my eyes were riveted on his
erected penis. All ten inches of it. All two and half inches of its
diameter. All eight inches of its circumference. And that had been
inside me, again and again and again.
The eyes that looked out at me were in neutral, neither frightened
nor weak, nor strong nor hostile. Just neutral. I looked at his data,
32 years old, divorced when lifted, a former security guard. His name
was Nick Willet. I looked at his muscles and shoulders and the visible
strength of his arms and I stopped any blame inside me that might have
arisen of self-recrimination for not having resisted more quickly or
more forcibly. There was no way that I would have been a match for
him, from the front, from the rear or from any side. When I perused
further and saw `karate and weights' under former `hobbies and
activities,' it became a definite `mismatch'.
Of the other folders, I only knew one of the slaves, a Fausto Lopes,
a Portuguese double murderer, whom I had transferred to the Lime
Palace to assist in sex technique training because his body was so
sensitive to touch.
I always remember Ben Trant's and more recently Dmitri Solidiuk's –
him of the combed pubes – statement how important it is for a slave
that the Master remembers the slave's name. In fact, if the truth be
told, I know about a hundred by name between the three Palaces and the
opal mine. The other nine hundred or so are indeed faces for whom I do
not have a name except in a file or with a file before me to remind me.
Miraldo had helped himself to a glass of water and was sipping it as
he waited for me to finish glossing over the files. It was only when I
was finishing reading the last file that I spotted the connection that
Miraldo had discovered, and I backtracked through the others.
Three of the slaves who had been treated for anal injuries had been
buddies at one time or another of my rapist. None had lasted more than
three months with him as a buddy. Where the rough sex had stopped and
rape had begun was a debatable and moot point. There were other slaves
who had been unlucky in their choice of a vigorous partner or some sex
play had been rougher than expected. Nick Willet however seemed to
hold the record in abusing his sex companions as far as the sheer
extent of physical damage went.
Four other interesting cases caught my eye, which struck me as
similar to my own experience. According to the doctor's notes, the
slaves had been assaulted and overpowered by an unknown perpetrator.
In other circumstances and locations, it would have been also called
rape, but in Dahran law, slaves are property and you cannot rape
property only people, but by a quirk of Dahran law slave property can
rape a free man, as one had done to me.
One thing was certain; whoever was responsible had wanted a victim,
not a willing partner. The attacker had chosen locations where a
struggle and cries for help would most likely go unnoticed. I noted
down the dates, times, buildings, and the slave identification numbers
of the four.
One, in the Lime Palace garage, had received a blow on the head, had
been grabbed and thrown on the floor. Another had walked into a
storeroom around midday, where someone had put a sack over his head to
muffle his screams and take away his vision, and fucked him until he
was bleeding. The other two attacks had happened in the Lime Palace
sauna too.
I had asked Stan Mercer to have one of his maintenance crew check
the lights in the sauna, and he reported back to me that two of the
bulbs had been taken out of their sockets and merely left intact on
the floor underneath the pine benches. He started to apologise for the
lack of maintenance. But I knew the attacker had planned his move well.
I put down the files and looked at Miraldo.
`Thank you. It makes me wonder how many other cases we may not know
about.'
`Not so many perhaps. If a slave is bruised or otherwise hurt, the
others tend to notice. All the other cases I have treated were
authorised.'
`Authorised?'
`Usually post-retraining checkups; Yves told me early on that the
trainers are authorised to use anal penetration.'
`That is correct.'
My retrainers have permission to use dildos or their own cocks as
tools for breaking a slave into submission, or for reminding a
recalcitrant slave of the power his Master has over him.
`Then sometimes I treat a slave who has been taken by an Overseer
who wants to get his point across. Of course, if it's not their buddy
but an Overseer, they can't choose someone else. If a slave has been
badly bruised I call in the Overseer in question and give him a
warning. It's not like the slaves can ask them to lay off.'
`They can't?'
`Well, they can ask of course. I think they prefer not to.'
`My Overseers are all supposed to have taken sex technique classes,'
I pointed out crossly.
`I am sure they have, Jonathan, but I assume the purpose is not
always to pleasure the slave on the receiving end.'
I could see where he was coming from. An Overseer may have sex with
an ordinary slave for mutual enjoyment. And he has the privilege use
him for his own enjoyment, without asking what the slave wants. Or he
may use sex as a means to an end, driving home the message of
obedience. In which case, the slave practices submitting to sexual
activities. An exercise of the submission expected of him in every
area, every day.
`Yes, that is true. But I don't want the slave to get damaged in the
process. Bruises from sex heal as do bruises from flogging, but anal
injuries are dangerous. You are right to have the Overseers on the
carpet when it happens. I am beginning to see, Miraldo, why none of
those slaves came to me to complain. I once had a slave punished
because he hit one and choked another during sex, but that was long
before your time and long before I acquired most of the slaves I own now.'
`I think a slave finds it hard to draw the line or set limits at
all. He has been trained to accept absolutely anything. He knows that
his sex life is not his choice. He knows that he has no say in what
happens to his body. What if he makes a bad impression? What if he is
considered defiant and uncooperative, in need of relearning submission?'
`You mean, better to hold one's tongue than to risk ending up
strapped to a table in the fifth compound.'
`Yes... I believe it is self-evident that a trained slave does not
complain.'
This struck me as sweeping generalisation. But then I asked myself,
when really had any slave ever come to me to complain about anything
even remotely close to this?
I gathered up the papers.
`True. Well, should there be any more anonymous attacks I want you
to inform me right away. If you have to treat what in your judgement
is serious damage resulting from anything else other than a formal
training or punishment situation, I want you to issue a warning to the
slave who was responsible whether buddy or Overseer. If it happens
repeatedly send them to me. I'll deal with our most acute problem now.
I'll hold on to these three files and this top file. Remind me at some
stage to give them back to you.'
Miraldo nodded.
`Come to see me again tomorrow please, Jonathan.'
`I will, Miraldo. I can hardly miss my doctor's appointments when I
employ the doctors, can I?'

In some countries, rape is punishable as the second most serious
crime after murder. My mind was clear as to the options I had as
regards this slave. My rights over him were absolute. He posed no
immediate physical threat now to me, but he did pose a threat to my
standing as his owner and a future threat to my own slaves. I could
have him put down by calling in the Dahran exectioner, but that option
I never seriously considered. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and
that slave would rue the day he ever attacked me, and that regret
would continue until the day he died, whenever in the distant and
painful future his death occurred.
I told Miraldo Coelho of my proposals for the slave and asked him if
he had any moral or ethical difficulties with them.
`None whatsoever, Jonathan. None whatsoever,' he said as I saw him
to the door.

I went back to my study and re-read each of the files. I laid one
aside. Referring to the notes I had made, I logged into the Palaces'
internal surveillance system and searched the backup ...
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