“What does that have to do with anything?” The horse bent her head sharply to one side, and Michael lost the struggle with her. She gleefully grabbed a clump of weeds and started to graze, and Michael grunted with the effort to pull her head up. Chris came to the rescue by miming a pull on one rein, and Michael followed his instruction until the mare gave in with annoyed snort.
“The difference is the same as the difference in our riding styles,” Chris said with a short laugh. “We have horses that seem similar on the outside, and the same equipment, and we proceed from the assumption that the horses will perform according to our wishes. But your mount is getting the message from you that she can bend the rules; you are not consistent in reminding her of her duty, so she cheats. But you can’t blame her alone for her behavior because she doesn’t know any better. So the ride won’t be exactly what you want at the end—but it won’t be worth giving her away, either. You know you don’t have the experience to take her in hand, so you forgive the cheating until it gets tiresome or embarrassing. At a certain point, you might get frustrated enough not to want to ride her any more.
“But a more experienced rider takes the mount in hand and will know whether it’s the horse or themselves that is lacking in schooling. You may harbor some doubts—is it your riding, or her training? If you take no more lessons with me, you may leave here and never expect more from a horse or know what to do to keep them behaving. You are like a new owner right now—aware that you should have the potential for great power and pleasure, but not exactly sure how to manage it.” Chris turned his mount again, showing off, walking the horse backward for a few steps.
“Geoff Negel creates the market for his unschooled mounts,” Chris said with a sharp gleam in his eye. “He proposes ownership status for people he cultivates to require less from property than a more traditional owner does. You told me yourself that he trains owners—invites them to his house and makes matches between them and his clients. If he sets up a system of lower expectations and doesn’t give his owners exposure to the potential world they might have access to, then he controls the market for his own product! And frankly, I think he encourages short-term contracts, although you would be more knowledgeable about that than I am. It’s hard for me to imagine a trainer who would so work against the standards of Marketplace tradition.”
“But—but—a lot of his owners want short-term slaves—some people really like variety!”
“In a bed partner, a pleasure slave? Yes, many owners do. But in a housekeeper? A childcare expert? A personal assistant? These are positions that benefit from a longterm relationship. As does a good sexual partner, but that’s more a matter of taste. If you will always and only like twenty-three-year old blonds, that’s your fetish. And if all Geoff did was train those twenty-three-year old blonds and make them available for the two years that they will fulfill that fetish, that might be acceptable. But he trains them and sells them as general clients, supposedly available for any use. When they grow dissatisfied and leave, he finds a new one to replace them. When the owners go from slave to slave, distracted by the variety at their hands, they never learn that something more stable and rewarding is available to them. He is only in one corner of the world, Michael. But his influence has the potential to be vast. Every slave he trains, every trainer he vouches for and every owner he nominates will pass on what they learned to someone else. And because there are few obvious failures on his record, he continues to look successful. Don’t confuse the image with the reality, Michael. You are better schooled, now.
“In fact, you can show me how much better; let’s get back at a trot, shall we? Post, Michael. It’ll hurt less if you post.”
And posting did make a difference, of course. Michael tried to remember all the ways that Geoff taught clients, and what kinds of values he tried to instill in them, and contrasted with the things he was learning now, what he had learned in his time at Anderson’s house. And he compared the slaves he worked with under Anderson and Parker and now under Grendel and Alex. He couldn’t help but notice that there were differences between them and the slaves he was used to in California, and hated the way he felt guilty when he wrote as much in his notebooks.
* * * *
It was very uncomfortable, he reflected as he wandered, feeling like you’re trapped between two philosophies. Geoff wasn’t a bad man, in fact, he was a very good man, patient and kind and generous. A sexy man who celebrated a sexy lifestyle. And living with him was always a joy, comfortable and happy and easy going. The slaves were mostly cheerful and grateful and eager to please.
But none of them, Michael thought, looking around the resort as he walked, could serve here this week. None of them. Even as pure pleasure slaves—there wasn’t a single pleasure slave here who didn’t know at least two languages and wasn't skilled in some non-sexual entertaining skill.
It seemed like most of the junior trainers had gone to the debates as well, and although the resort was bustling with all these perfect slaves preparing the banquet hall for the evening, the hallways and smaller meeting rooms felt strangely empty. He had never actually felt the difference between the presence of free people and slaves before.
And although he got reverences and respectful murmurs and offers of service, he missed the fun of the place when there was a mixture of trainer and slave in the halls. The play of power and control. Not to mention the noise of people who were free to raise or lower their voices at will. The place was just too damn quiet when the slaves took over. When he finished looking through the meeting rooms and had turned down two offers of refreshments, he saw a third slave, this one American, approach him. He was ready to just wave him off, but the man leaned into a respectful bow and asked, “Are you looking for company, sir? There are others who are not attending the debates.”
“Oh—sure, thanks. I was...wondering where the others were,” Michael said.
“This way, sir.” The slave led him out of the business section back toward the traditional Japanese side, and through a courtyard. There was a beautiful outdoor pavilion set up, softly swaying banners shading stone benches and a few more conventional canvas-backed outdoor chairs. And to his pleasure, he could see Kim lying on her back in the grass, two other junior trainers with her, and one of Corinne’s ubiquitous translator slaves kneeling to one side.
“Hey,” Michael called out, as he approached them. Kim sat up and grinned easily.
“Hey,” Kim answered. “Come and join the exiles!”
Michael snorted; so much for trying to pretend that it was his choice to be there. He collapsed into a comfortable cross-legged position on the ground and leaned over to give Kim a peck on the cheek. “The exiles?” he asked.
“I am unworthy of the presence of my betters,” Kim shrugged. She pointed to another young woman sitting to her left and said, “This is Luciana, she is training with the great Arturo Massimiliano.”
Michael knew just enough Italian to get into trouble, but he knew when to be polite. “Buon pomeriggio,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. Her smile was immediate and he was glad of it. He turned to the other person sitting nearby and almost laughed.
Because this—this boy—surely couldn’t be old enough to be here!
There was no doubt about one thing, though; he was a beautiful young man. There had been a movie he had seen recently; some weird film about a kid named Gilbert Grape. There had been a young man in that movie, with haunting, ethereal eyes, and a lock of hair that fell over them in a wonderfully bashful way. An Italian name, he thought, not exactly remembering. But this young man before him was just like that; a little slender, almost delicately boned, with a chin almost too smooth to boast that tiny goatee. He was dressed in a suit small enough to have been bought in a boy’s section, but the chin fuzz and a certain look in his light blue eyes actually did suggest that he was older. It was his body that gave him away—slight, with small hands and a pointed chin.
“I’m Michael,” he said, sticking his hand out.
“Stuart,” said the young man, shaking Michael’s hand warmly. His accent was pure American, so the translator was for Luciana’s benefit.
“The exiles,” sighed Kim dramatically. “Left behind as our masters discuss important things.”
“My trainer thought the topic wasn’t important for me,” Stuart said with a slight, toothy smile. “Plus, I think she just wanted me out of her hair for a while. But man, I really wanted to go!”
Luciana shrugged as she listened to the translation. “I wanted to go too,” she said, her translator working almost simultaneously. “But I think I’m also glad to not be working for just a little while.” She looked up, over Michael’s shoulder and smiled again, and started to strip. Michael swallowed hard and then half-turned to see three slaves approaching with towels and pillows and bottles.
Kim grinned. “We might not be having sex,” she said gleefully, “but we can certainly have massage!”
“You devil you,” Michael said with a grin of his own. “So order one for me, too! How about you, Stu, are you getting rubbed?”
Stuart coughed nervously, looking away briefly from the two women busily disrobing. “I—I’d rather not, thanks. But I’ll hang out with you, if that’s OK.”
The three slaves laid out large, soft towels and sheets and the three junior trainers arranged themselves face down, comfortably. In no time, three slaves were industriously working on tense muscles and bruised egos, and the sounds of sighs filled the garden. Michael’s slave was a Eurasian woman with long hair and dense muscles, and he practically purred under her ministrations.
“Who needs all the politics anyway?” he asked rhetorically, rolling over so the woman could work on his legs. “This is exactly what I needed!”
“Mmmmmmm,” Kim sighed, stretching and relaxing while her masseur worked her buttocks. “Politics? What is that? I am in heaven. Politics are hell.”
“Well, I still wish I was there,” said Stuart, his knees drawn up against his body. “Or if not there, I wish there was something else to do—another seminar, or maybe even a discussion group. I wanted to learn everything I could this weekend. It feels kinda silly to just be hanging out. Not that you guys aren’t great, but I could be, you know—learning something.”
“He’s a good student,” Luciana mumbled, so thickly that her translator had to bend next to her to hear. “Not like me, eh? Not like we three exiles.” She laughed and the others joined her.
“Oh, I’m happy if one minute goes by and I don’t have a lesson,” Michael said. “Sometimes, it seems like the only things I hear are criticisms and lessons...”
“It is our place in life,” said Kim without a trace of bitterness.
“Wow—you guys must have really tough trainers,” Stuart said admiringly. “Marcy is hard on me, yeah, but I love it. I love learning everything she can tell me.”
What a fucking boy scout, Michael thought, hiding a snicker. “So, what did you learn today, Stu?”
“Oh God, I don’t even know where to start—this morning, I went to a demonstration of posture training, it was really hot. Then I caught the end of this discussion of computer technology, they’re thinking of making identity disks with embedded chips in them, you wouldn’t believe how useful that could be! Marcy told me I could be in charge of her computer, I’m learning all the software and stuff, keeping up on what the Marketplace is planning to do in the future. It’s awesome. Have you guys heard about the World Wide Web? It’ll be an awesome way to preview sales! Live chat, too. I tell you, with some more speed, our new internet connections will blow the old BBS system away. And then, at lunchtime, I met some really big names, it was like, I don’t know, like meeting people you only read about. Because, you know—I um, read about them before I came here. Jeeze, listen to me, I sound like an idiot!” He laughed at himself, and Michael revised his earlier judgment.
Not a boy scout, he thought. A fucking space cadet. How the hell does he rate being here?
“So teach us something,” Kim said cheerfully. “I am a worthless, stupid cow without brains enough to seek cover in the rain, but I try to learn. Teach me something about how this computer thing will make a better slave.”
“Oh, don’t be unkind,” Luciana said, poking Kim in one arm. “He is excited, and that is only correct. I don’t know whether computer chips or internets can make our lives any easier or more fun, but I do know that if you say you were not once like Stuart, you are lying.”
Stuart blushed and coughed again, nervously. “Jeeze”, he complained. “You guys are so, like, blasé about it all. But look at yourselves! You’re lying on a tropical island with these hot slaves massaging your body and there’s another one headed this way right now, and I bet he’s got cold drinks. Your job is to make people like them, and you get to play with them and train them and get served by them—it’s the most awesome job in the whole universe!”
“And how long have you been at it, Stu?” Michael teased.
“Well—I started my training about two years ago.”
Michael squinted in the afternoon sun and looked at Stuart again. Two years ago? Hell, the kid must have been—practically a teenager! Shit!
“I know I haven’t been at it long, I admit that. But age is a self-correcting flaw, right?” He grinned, and the women smiled back at him. “And I love it all,” he continued. “I love waking up and realizing that I’m living a fantasy life. Everything I always dreamed of is coming true for me. I’ve got the best trainer in my area to teach me, and I’ve seen some of the most amazing slaves. I mean slaves that make you cry they’re so awesome, so dedicated.”
“There you go!” cried Kim, brushing away her masseur with one impatient hand and taking the cold drink that Stuart had seen coming from the slave who was kneeling patiently next to her. “That’s what we need, an inspirational lesson. Tell us about some extraordinary slave of your acquaintance. Remind me why I am enduring all this.” She helped herself to a damp towel as well, and wiped at the sweat on her throat and breasts.
“Help us pass the time, you mean,” Luciana said, rolling over into a sunny patch of grass and dragging her fingers through her burnished hair. “I am willing, though.”
Michael really wasn’t—but the company of two naked woman and the warm afternoon were two things that kept him lying comfortably on the soft sheets, his arm folded under his cheek. He wiggled his toes, and felt the slave move to massage his feet and sighed loudly.
“Yeah, teach us about how amazing this life can be,” he said. “I am all ears!”
“You guys,” Stuart sighed. But he took a tall glass of iced tea and sipped it thoughtfully. “OK, you want something inspirational? Lemme tell you about this one slavegirl; this’ll knock your socks off.”
“Knock away,” Michael said, prepared to fall asleep. But his stomach churned with the heavy knowledge of Chris’s displeasure, and the shame of being denied the right to even stand in the back of the room while Chris stood up and delivered the most important topic to be discussed this week. I’m no inspiration, he thought sadly. I’m practically a liability.
Chapter Eight: The Tiger in the Dining Room
by M. Christian
“I’m very disappointed in you—”
Fancy had undergone many experiences since... well, since she’d really started to live. Her body vibrated with the echoes of some of them, slight tremors keyed to special memories; ripples of sensation set into motion by the right sound, just the right smell.
The touch, the feel, even the smell of old, warm leather, immediately brought up intense memories of penetration and orgasm. All of her senses except that of sight—she’d been blindfolded and bound by thick strips of soft, tanned hide. A scent of violet recalled a special kind of pain, a special kind of penetration: memories of the time Mistress Caroline had inserted a needle through her left nipple. Mistress Caroline, to whom she’d been loaned for a weekend, always wore a soft violet perfume.
Many feelings, sensations, and many o
f them carrying along what others—and what she might have called before she’d been brought into her real life—would consider pain. The simple fact was that word rarely had any meaning anymore. Pain was just another form of experience, part of her travels as a submissive.
But then, staring down at the tightly-woven Chinese rug at her feet, Fancy did feel pain—not needles, not a cane, not a whip, not a scalding form of humiliation—the sharp sting of shame.
In some small place inside, she felt it had not been her fault. Still, a far greater part of her knew that it was, indeed, her fault—she should have looked where she was going, should have seen the imperfection in the woven surface. She should never have allowed herself to trip on it and fall, fragmenting her Master’s priceless porcelain tea set with a crash in front of his friends, fellow Masters and Mistresses.
If she had been a perfect slave, an ideal slave, she never would have tripped.
“I try to be a forgiving sort,” her Master said, standing firmly at attention to one side. “I endeavor to give everyone in my immediate circle the benefit of the doubt: to place myself in their position, in their shoes—so to speak—and not let my rather, well, high standards rule my judgment.”
He began to slowly pace, a short march from one side of the small room to the other. His heavy boots, all gleaming, finely-tooled leather, softly thumped with each step on the Chinese rug. “But this... severe display of what I could only call profound clumsiness—especially as it was, conducted in full view of my esteemed colleagues—has truly stretched the limits of my patience.”
Fancy didn’t say anything. Not only was she forbidden to speak unless spoken to, but she was too deeply shamed. She couldn’t stop her lip from quivering enough to even frame a response, even if she were allowed to.
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