“Begging your pardon, sir, but we were not serfs. In fact, several of my ancestors were knights, and one was a baronet. Shall I explain?”
“You bet.”
She composed herself and began. “In Great Britain, most of the familial ties have broken down because of the changes in the economy and the fall of many of the great old houses. But in the past, it was considered an honor to be associated with a great lord—one had to be in service to someone, after all. Some of these ties continued despite wars and similar upheavals. Such is the case with my family. We have served the Tillsdales and their various offshoots as military men, aides, butlers, footmen and nannies and housekeepers—and my uncles on my mother’s side took over the keeping of the apple orchards when I was a child. My father was his Lordship’s chauffeur for twenty years, and my mother served in the city house for ten years in her day; that was how they met.”
“They were both slaves?”
“Oh, no sir. My father was, but my mother was a standard employee. However, she learned of my father’s position, and decided to enter that level of service herself.”
“Are they still slaves?”
“No, sir. They have retired to a cottage in the village. I have two uncles, one aunt, two cousins, and one sister who are currently in service. When I enter, my aunt will be finished with her contract and is expected to also retire.”
“Uh-huh.” Michael hardly knew what to say. Great—a slave who grew up surrounded by other slaves, exemplary slaves, if the records didn’t lie. And she already had a place to go—what the hell was she doing here? “Anderson said you’ve been in Japan. I see you were in training there, too. What were you learning?”
“Japanese, sir. I also learned the rudiments of their way of making and serving tea, and acquired some basic kitchen skills, plus some instruction in how to dress a lady in a kimono and similar tasks. Mostly, I was there to learn about the culture.”
“And did you? Learn Japanese, in one year?”
“Not enough to carry on a conversation, sir. But I do know enough to understand basic requests for service, and how to be polite when I don’t understand. I am continuing my studies, and am expected to be fluent in two years.”
“Good, good.” Getting better, he thought sarcastically. I took Spanish for three years in high school and still can’t remember how to ask where the bathroom is.
“And you’re here for—?”
“Polishing work, sir.” She smiled, raising a pair of cute dimples. “I’m to learn about American culture, and finish up my training in basic service requirements so that I may take up my position in the great house upon returning to England.”
“Position—yes.” Michael glanced down at the papers. “You’re going to be—”
“Second upstairs maid, sir.”
“Right.” There were books on staffing and household management in Geoff’s library, and Michael had glanced at a few. God, what it used to take to staff one of those old English castles, or manors, or whatever. You had butlers and housekeepers with an army of maids, footmen, and assorted gardeners, groundskeepers, and various specialists like wine stewards. It had been funny to imagine twenty people taking care of a family of four or five—what on earth did these people do all day? How many times can you dust and sweep—how many people did it really take to cook three meals a day?
And then, he and a few other trainees accompanied Geoff to a weekend-long trainers event at a British manor house, and damn if every single one of the servants wasn’t busy every time you saw one. He had also tried to learn a little there—but the less he thought about that, the better. Still—it must be nice to have all the servants in a house also be slaves, he thought. So classy! Pull ’em off to one side and whack ’em a little and screw ’em. Watch them put their uniforms back on, flip the skirts down, pull up the pants, get that just-fucked look off their faces and get back to work a minute later.
Not surprisingly, he felt an erection growing. He glanced down at the papers again. “Okay. So, you know I’m Anderson’s apprentice.” (He thought that sounded better than student.) “But don’t think that because I’m learning here I won’t be a tough trainer.”
“Oh, no sir.”
“Because all this means is that you have two trainers instead of one—twice the potential to screw up.”
“Yes, sir.” She looked so damn earnest.
On Anderson’s schedule was nothing but chores, training sessions in skills such as speech and movement, and two times a day when she had blocked in “use.” Michael hadn’t asked what that meant—it seemed obvious.
“How are you at sex?” he asked, trying to shake her.
“Please sir, I haven’t been rated in sexual activities.” Oh, but look at that nice pink glow on her cheeks, and that gentle rise of her chest as she lowered her eyes!
“Why not?”
“His Lordship will have certain people who are trained in that area, sir. He would not wish me to spend time learning what he has experts for.” She blushed a little more.
“But you will be used,” Michael said confidently. “Every slave is used eventually.”
“As you say, sir.”
“So come over here and let’s see how you do in some other tests, shall we?” He gestured with one finger, twisting it down in a kind of reverse beckoning and she immediately dropped forward onto her hands and knees. Carefully, she crawled to him, the maid gone, the slave at once appearing.
Nice. He watched the curve of her body, the sway in her hips as she crossed the floor, and when she rose up again in front of him, she was close enough to touch, but not even brushing the fabric of his trousers. He leaned over her to unfasten the dress behind her neck, and then he pushed it down her shoulders.
Her breasts were cupped by a pristine white lace bra which lifted them for his visual enjoyment. They were round and invited touch, and he didn’t waste any time admiring them. Oh yes, soft and heavy, and just right. The bra helped to keep them up, make them attractive. He slipped his fingers inside the bra and lightly pressed them against her warm flesh, and she shivered appropriately.
“I like this,” he murmured, brushing his thumbs against her nipples. They tightened under his pressure, and became erect. “I like the bra. But your nipples aren’t sore enough.”
For a moment, he felt rather than heard confusion and momentary indecision rising from her. Perhaps it was the drawing of a breath too sharply, a sudden jolt in the gentle rise of her chest. But she didn’t say a word, and Michael almost froze himself.
Shit, she’s just a slave, he thought angrily. If I surprise her, that’s part of the training, remember? Keep ’em off balance. He twisted her nipples sharply and smiled when she gasped.
“Yeah,” he said, continuing to fondle her. “These need to be sore, as much as possible. Don’t tell me you can’t take a little bit of pain like this?” He twisted them again, and pulled them out of the lacy cups, tugging sharply.
“Yes, sir, if it pleases you, sir!” The words came out in a rush, but didn’t sound too panicked. He dropped her tits and grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it back, tilting her head up.
“It does please me.” Michael found her lips to be as warm and full as her breasts—soft, inviting and welcoming. No complaints there, even when he pressed her to him so hard that he could feel her teeth almost scraping his. When he let her go, she rocked back, gasping. A good kiss always shook a slave—they were rarely kissed like that. In fact, he had gotten quite a reputation for that, back at Geoff’s. Slaves worked harder to please him, thinking of that unexpected intimacy which might serve as a reward. And Geoff had approved of it, saying that individual trainers should have their own marks of rewarding attention to keep the slaves guessing and on their toes.
But she recovered quickly, her dress sliding down her arms, her breasts falling out of the bra cups, her light lipstick smudged. It was charming, that lovely moment of disturbed dignity, when her flesh was touched by color and her poise shaken and not
quite up to restoration. But it was only a moment—and then it was gone, and she was waiting for more instruction or another action from him, her eyes open and ready.
There was a fleeting second where Michael thought that this was enough, but the stirring between his legs was insistent. And why the hell not? Get her used to one of her new duties. Smiling, he indicated his fly. He had missed his usual morning blowjob—now was a good enough time to catch up. He didn’t have a condom, so he wouldn’t finish in her—but a splash of jism was just what those big tits needed.
“I know your Japanese isn’t conversational. Let’s try your French.” He leaned back, stretching his arms out, and felt again that split second of hesitation from her. He glanced down even as she was moving her hands toward his belt buckle, but couldn’t find a single thing to criticize. Biting back an unsaid reprimand, he looked stern and she continued with her task.
Her fingers were sure and nimble, even at the awkward part where the belt had to be tightened to unfasten it. Her breath was a warm wind across his crotch as she maneuvered the zipper down, and the cool touch of her fingers teased him deliciously. His cock was so hard it hurt, and he wanted very much to batter her throat the way he learned to use his uncle’s boys. But he waited, sighed as she lowered her full lips to kiss the head of his cock, very gently. It seemed to be a ritual; he liked it. But there wasn’t a lot of patience left for such subtlety. He pressed her head down further and she engulfed him, not as smoothly as he was used to, but adequately enough for a first try. It felt marvelous, that familiar warmth flooding his body, the rise in heat that tingled his skin all the way from his forehead to the soles of his feet.
Her bowed back was very pretty as she worked on him. Okay, maybe she was heavier than he liked, but she was still a nice piece of work. He relaxed as she began to suck him, and then tried to pay attention to her technique. That was one of the hardest jobs a trainer had, he reflected. Trying to keep your mind working while someone’s doing their best to make you happy. Everyone should have these kinds of problems with their work.
She wasn’t nearly as good as most of the slaves he was accustomed to. Although she was eager, and did seem to approach the task with enthusiasm, there was a guardedness behind every motion which seemed jarring. Michael flashed back to one of his earliest girlfriends, trying to go down on him in the front seat of his car, her motives questionable and her technique not worth bragging about.
But no, it wasn’t that Joan was bad—she kept her lips over her teeth and drew in warm breaths and didn’t just play with it like girls do. It was just—something was missing. Gritting his teeth, he pulled her away from him. “You have no idea how to do this,” he snapped.
Immediately, she cast her eyes down. “No sir,” she responded. “Please sir, forgive my failing, and teach me to please you.”
“Oh, you’ll learn, sweetie. We’ll be doing this a lot. No slave leaves my training without knowing how to really suck cock.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Right—the first thing to do, is realize that you need to take it all smoothly—and you have to keep your lips firm. Show me how much you love my cock—don’t just suck it, make love to it. Worship it. I want to see enthusiasm, energy, devotion. You are going to make yourself a slut for me, ready to take it all. When you get to do this, you’re pleasing a man the best way possible, you got that?”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded slightly, and licked her lips to moisten them. She did look slightly dismayed at the word “slut,” and stabbing through his pleasure at shaking her up again was just a bit of confusion. What the hell was wrong with “slut?” All slaves loved to be sluts, that’s what they were there for. Well, he’d teach her to love the word. Maybe he could ask Anderson if that was the way he could refer to her from now on. Yeah, that would be hot. He grinned and gripped his cock, angling it toward her face again. “Let’s start at the beginning, slut. Take the head of the cock in your mouth, and swirl your tongue around it—”
The door did not squeak, but the floorboards did. Michael’s head shot up when he heard the sound, and he caught Chris Parker’s eyes instantly. His mouth dropped open and confusion mingled with anger at the intrusion.
“I’m busy—” he started to say, but Parker cut him off.
“That will be all, Joan,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Fix yourself and attend the Trainer upstairs.”
“Yes, Chris,” she said quickly. And with a lightning quick glance at Michael, she rose, drawing her dress up over her shoulders. Quickly, her fingers did up the closures, and she dropped a neat little exit curtsy as she passed Parker in the doorway. She was blushing furiously.
Michael bit back his initial retort and shoved his still-hard cock back into his pants. He waited until the door closed behind Joan to explode. “What the fuck was that about? I was interviewing her, for crissakes! You just blew my authority with her, thank you very fucking much!”
“You had no authority with her, Mike,” Chris snapped back, his emphasis sharp on the name. “And what you were doing was not an acceptable part of an initial interview—or didn’t you notice that sexual conduct was not recommended for first contacts?”
Michael fastened his belt. “It wasn’t her first interview! She’s been here for almost a month!”
“It was her first interview with you.” Parker smiled tightly, and tilted his head in amusement.
“And my methods are obviously different than yours! You had no right to interrupt like that!” Michael slammed his fist down on the table. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now? She’s not going to respect me as much as she should.” He stood up and started shoving his shirt down into his waistband. “I don’t believe you did that.”
“Then we have something in common, Mike. It’s hard for me to believe how spectacularly you are making a fool out of yourself.” Parker walked past him and opened Joan’s file and shifted through the papers. “Look. She has been rated novice level in sexual performance—does that suggest anything to you?”
Michael looked down, fuming. Sure, the pages of her ratings were familiar, he had looked through them before the interview. “Yeah, so? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as rather odd that someone who has been in training for so long would be a novice at sexual pleasure?” Chris looked over the top rim of his glasses and then back down to the page. “And here—do you see any suggestion that her training has included sexual skills? No—domestic skills, language skills, and social skills—and that’s it.”
“What are you saying? That she doesn’t have to screw? That’s bullshit! All slaves have to be good in bed, that’s the whole fucking point!”
Chris sighed and closed the file. “It was a... pleasure to meet you, Mr. LaGuardia. Good luck in your future employment.” He turned to leave.
Michael grabbed for his arm angrily. “And what the fuck does that mean?”
Parker looked at the hand locked around his bicep and then up into Michael’s face, and Michael opened his fingers. Michael was astonished at the muscle density he had felt, but he wasn’t afraid. They stared at each other for heartbeats, and Michael felt about ready to snap when the Trainer’s low voice cut through the tension.
“Profanity is so unoriginal,” Anderson said, stepping through the doorway. “I try not to use it—it provides such a bad example for the clients. Particularly that word—fuck. It has to be the ugliest word in the English language.”
“Trainer,” Chris said. Michael shut his mouth and watched the moves the smaller man made. Parker took a slight step back, just enough to make the dipping of his shoulders look gracefully natural. Then, he straightened back up—just the sort of move that an Anderson-trained slave might make—smooth, unobtrusive, yet absolutely clear. For a moment, he lost himself in the study of it—how do you show someone that move? Step back, dip, but not too low, keep that eye contact except for a brief second... where had he seen this before?
“I’m ever so fascinated
to hear all about how you botched up your first assignment, Mike,” Anderson was saying, interrupting his train of thought. “Chris, will you please attend to Joan? We had planned to continue with organizing skills today.”
“Of course.” Chris exited without another glance at Michael.
“Well—doesn’t follow instructions, doesn’t play well with others—you’re not on the way to making up for your initial entrance, Mike.” Anderson shuffled the scattered pages of Joan’s file back into a neat stack.
“Look, I’m sorry—Jeez, how many times am I going to have to say I’m sorry about making a simple mistake at the door?”
“Until you get it right, kiddo. Sit down.” Anderson turned quickly and pointed. Her eyes were hard and cold, and Michael felt the first genuine moment of dread. He collapsed back down into his chair, compressing his lips in an effort to keep himself from saying more. He felt like he needed to explode! Anderson waited as he blew out a stream of exasperated breath, and then pulled out a chair for herself.
“Mike, has it occurred to you to ask why we haven’t fully forgiven you for last night?”
“Not as much as it’s occurred to me that you’re blowing the entire fucking thing out of proportion!” The words were out before he even had a chance to consider them. He grimaced as a look of displeasure crossed the Trainer’s face.
“How about we try this,” she said gently. “You lose that word, and I’ll try to forget that you just had that little slip.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For saying...the word you don’t like!” What was this, some kind of absurd, childish drama here? He fought the impulse to say “the f-word.”
“And?”
“What is there to add?” He could barely keep his voice from scaling up, but at least he was controlling the volume. Michael looked away to avoid those dark, analytic eyes.
Anderson brushed a few strands of hair away from her throat and sat back. “You’re sorry that you offended me by using language you knew I find distasteful. You would make up for this lapse if you could, but you can at least assure me that you won’t ever use such language in my presence again.”
The Trainer Page 4
