After a while, it all began to sound suspiciously like new-age pop psychology for SMers. The talking cure for whatever ailed you, whether it was a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction or a lower-than-required level of commitment. Matchmaking instead of auction sales. Time out instead of physical discipline, listening instead of just relying on a slave to do as they are told without complaint. It seemed an odd way to manage slave training—after all, Michael thought, it wasn’t as if these people were getting married. Contracts were for short amounts of time, leading to either more contracts or new ones. Either everyone got what they wanted, or they started again with someone new. No need to get all involved with personal problems or actually do relationship counseling with someone you could literally give away to someone else, was there?
According to Geoff, there was exactly such a need.
“In a lot of ways, the classic style of slave ownership is just a model based on real life exploitation,” he explained. “Romans and Greeks owned slaves, one nation conquered another and took slaves, colonists spent years making sure that they’d have some underclass to buy and sell—but why should we just copy what they did?”
“Geoff, no one fought to get into slavery in those times,” Michael pointed out. “You have people backed up on a waiting list for months. It’s totally different now! Yeah, we have to use some rules based on old stuff, but so is everything else in life! You take what works and toss the rest. So, we’re not killing people or kidnapping them or separating families and all that shit—isn’t that enough of a difference?”
“No! If we had found some way to strip a person of their humanity as well, it might be. But you can’t ever forget that these slaves are people first, people with needs.” He indicated his back files with pride. “Needs that were met, because I took the time to find out who they were and what they wanted. To make sure that their qualifications were perfect for the market, and that the buyers knew what kind of training they had. To find just the right sort of buyers, who could be counted on to take care of these precious people, make sure they have the right environment to grow in. And how many complaints have I had, Mike? None! So trust me, this is the way of the future. You stick with me, and you’ll have that beach house and the matched set of slaves you’re dreaming about.”
And he would wink, give Mike something to do, and then get back to that amazing way he had of making everyone think he had given them his total attention.
It was easy to believe Geoff, in so many things. He had it all—the lifestyle, the panache—and the house full of slaves and trainers ready to bolster his claims. And so much of it did make sense from a compassionate point of view—even from a logical one. It was so simple to just run someone through the exercises, ask the questions and keep right on going—so simple, in fact, that it became boring far sooner than Michael ever dreamed it could.
Chapter Five
Michael stirred under the covers and stretched. God, was it morning already? He rolled over to check the digital reading on the clock. Yep—fifteen more minutes until wake-up. Not enough time to go back to sleep. Just enough time for a quickie, though—but no one to sheet-wrestle with.
He threw himself onto his back in frustration. Damn, a man gets used to things when he has them every day. I have to stop thinking about it, he counseled himself. It’s only sex.
Yeah, right.
Well, enough self-pity. Out of bed, and into the shower, it’s another wacky day at the Anderson home.
Dressing also made him pause. His usual clothing consisted of pull-over shirts and light sweaters and jeans—leather pants when weather permitted. Boots, unless he was wearing the latest designer running shoes.
But Parker wore a damn shirt and tie every fucking day, as far as he could tell. Maybe he should, too? Except that he only had two dress shirts and two ties with him. It could get pretty boring.
Boring being the operative word. Three days had gone by, and he had gotten little or no access to his training slave. Instead, Anderson had him reading and taking notes, making outlines and studying the household schedule. He had thought that the lengthy lecture he received on interview techniques and following instructions had been punishment enough for messing up Joan’s interview. That, and the shame of having her stop the tape and grill him on why he asked the few questions he did. But no, his real punishment was having his client taken away from him until he learned what to do with her. Not that it was exactly spelled out that way, but it was clear what was going on.
He was never invited to sit in with Anderson when she took one of the girls into her office, and found himself incensed when he realized that Parker had his little sessions with them as well. He found Chris drilling Joan one day, Joan seated at the dining room table blindfolded. At once, Michael’s heart beat wildly—a blindfold was the kinkiest thing he had seen used since he had arrived, and he stopped as he was passing by the door to gaze at the scene, half-thrilled and half-scared at the prospect of being shooed away like a curious toddler who found his parents necking.
But Chris didn’t even seem to notice him. He was leaning forward and holding something toward Joan’s face, and Michael slid further along the doorway to see what it was.
It was a cup. Joan sniffed the contents and said, confidently, “Oh, that one’s Lapsang Souchong!”
Michael blinked as Chris took the cup away and jotted something down on his clipboard. “Excellent, Joan, perfect marks. You may remove the blindfold.”
The slave did so, saying, “Thank you, Chris.”
“You’re very welcome. Clear all of this up, and why not brew some of the Lapsang for the Trainer? She’ll take it in the office.”
“Yes, Chris, of course.” As she rose from her chair, Michael almost ran from the doorway, but he held himself still as Chris’s eyes turned up toward him. The senior trainer said nothing, though. What was there to say?
Oh yes, and Michael also had the distinct pleasure of watching Parker handle a little disciplinary problem with a heavy leather strap, how exciting. Tara was a sight to see, though, her skirts hiked up, her pretty ass bared, her face streaked with tears. Parker had a steady, unerring hand, and that brutal strap colored her up nicely—and yet there was no sexiness about it, no overlaying miasma of sex-to-come, that weight of SM sensuality. Michael had ached to take those red cheeks in his hands and knead them, the way all trainers were encouraged to at Geoff’s, to stroke the inflamed flesh, and take pleasure in the how the slave reacted with whimpers and small gasps of pleasure and pain. To hear their breathless thanks, the shame-filled pleas for forgiveness. To pull on a condom and have them spread open—
It was only sex. Uh-huh.
But Parker didn’t screw the dickens out of Tara when he was through. He simply accepted a brief kiss on his boot, and then sent her away, looking as though nothing particularly special had occurred.
“Isn’t that kind of cold?” Michael had asked Anderson later on.
“Punishment is not supposed to be fun,” she had replied.
“Yes, I know—but what about for the trainer? For the owner? Shouldn’t we get something out of this?”
“The satisfaction of a job well done?” She looked a little over his shoulder for a moment and then sighed. “Tomorrow, I want you to work with Vicente for a little while—he needs an extra pair of hands.”
With Vicente—the non-slave cook/housekeeper/whatever. There was no understanding what was going on around here! And no one to ask. Michael had reported to Vicente, expecting to get a run-down on household time schedules or something like that, but instead wound up going shopping. Yep—the dark skinned man handed him a list, a set of car keys, and directions to a local supermarket. There was also some dry cleaning to pick up.
Michael steamed at a steady rate as he ran through the list, crashing his cart more than once against innocent corner displays in the market. Some training this was! He cursed out loud as he loaded the car, and all the way to the dry cleaners. But he was composed by the time he came bac
k—cheerful, even.
It was just helping out, that was all! He had decided that there had been nothing intentionally insulting in Anderson’s request—after all, he was an extra hand in the house, why shouldn’t he pitch in? He was taking it all wrong—and being unfair to the Trainer. I’m on the fucking edge, he thought, chastising himself and glad that no one saw his temper tantrums. I gotta calm down, chill out. Being asked to chip in was part of being made you a member of the household instead of being treated like a guest. Now, perhaps, there would be some attention paid to making him more of a trainer.
But when he got back, Vicente only directed him to start putting things away—and Tara “helped” him. She was too busy actually cooking to do anything but directed him to where things went. After the last bag was empty, Vicente thanked him, and told him that he was free for the rest of the day.
“Great! Glad to help. Where’s the Trainer?”
“Oh, she is not to be disturbed,” the big man said. “There are no duties—you may do what you like until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow?” Michael’s voice started to scale up, and he fought it down to a more proper, controlled level. “That was it for me today? Shopping?”
Vicente looked around as though searching for another task. Tara kept her eyes down as she diced carrots for soup. “There is nothing, Mr. Michael,” Vicente smiled. “Not until dinner, when you will be wanted to eat, hm?”
“Thanks,” Michael muttered, leaving the kitchen. Great. Alone in a strange town, no wheels, no place to go, and he was free for the rest of the day. Shit, there wasn’t even a TV in the whole house! Well, that wasn’t true, there was a small one in a cabinet in the office, which was mainly for watching videos of other trainers and occasional sale catalogs. Anderson did not get cable.
He kept running into Joan, which made it even more annoying that he wasn’t continuing the interview process and overseeing her training the way he was supposed to. She always curtsied when she saw him, and faint blushes touched her cheeks. He wondered if she had laughed at his predicament. It made him want to slap her just out of principle. And make her suck him again, this time to completion, and to hell with Parker’s opinion on whether she’d be used like that! Another trainer, one of the European ones, had once written: “A slave having witnessed the humiliation of a master is a tarnished servant and must be reminded of their place before they can regain any luster.”
Michael was positive that Anderson did not agree with that assessment, but he certainly did. At least he did now. Topping Joan in a lengthy scene, with nipple clamps and whips and paddles and tight bondage would be just the right thing. Tie those big tits up tight, make her wince with pain, and get all red from the shame of having them stuck out for everyone to see and fondle. He’d work her hard, make her cry and beg his forgiveness, beg to suck him or anything else he wanted. If he were back in California, he’d make a fucking example of her. Get another trainer to help, maybe. Or, two. Fill all three holes, how would you like that for sexual use, huh? Then he’d feel better. And there’d be a little less doubt that she respected him, too.
These thoughts did not console him long. In fact, he found that dwelling on the matter made him feel even more frustrated, and at one point, he thought, oh, what’s the use? I need to live under these new rules. I have to learn what the hell it is about this style that makes it so special. I can always go back to the things that worked at Geoff’s later on. When I have my own place, maybe, or when I join some more relaxed house somewhere.
One day at chores became two, and then three. In fact, the third day was the most interesting; he got his first exposure to the New York City Subway system, taking the train into Manhattan to pick up some CDs Anderson had ordered from Tower Records. Again, Vicente gave him the errand, and this time advised him to take as long as he liked doing it. “Enjoy yourself,” he said cheerfully. “Go and look in the stores.” His accent continued to be a mystery—it seemed faintly Hispanic, but nothing like the Mexican rhythms Michael had known back in LA. Mike wanted to ask about it, but never felt that the time was right to ask. Besides, you never knew how sensitive people were going to be about an innocent question.
But meanwhile, he was being sent off to shop like some nitwit valley girl. Well, he did need some new shirts anyway—and maybe a few ties. Spending most of the day in Soho and the East Village lightened his mood for a while, but as he studied the subway map to find his way back to Brooklyn during the rush hour, he began to feel a nervousness in the pit of his stomach that was vaguely nauseating.
I’m not being given a chance, he complained inwardly, steeling himself to the rocking motion of the train and idly looking at the skyline. How can I do anything right if she won’t let me do anything at all? I have to ask her what’s wrong, that’s all, and insist that I be given a proper opportunity to prove myself.
Resolved to do that, he sprang up the steps to the house with an energy he hadn’t felt since the first day he arrived. He deposited the CDs with Vicente and ran upstairs to change for dinner. He even showered first, shaving and combing his hair before slipping into one of his crisp new shirts. It was powder blue with a spread collar, and he had gotten a brightly colored, stylish tie. Yes, very sharp. He hummed as he came down the stairs, and nearly ran into Anderson as she was coming out of her office.
“Good evening, Mike,” she said, shifting a sheaf of papers in her arms. “How nice you look.”
He beamed. “Thanks, Trainer. Listen, could we talk for a moment before dinner?”
She nodded and pushed the office door open again. He held it for her and then followed her in. “I got your music today,” he said.
“Thank you. And yet, why don’t I think that’s what you wanted to chat about?”
“I’ll come to the point,” Michael said quickly, wishing he’d dropped the small talk. “What’s on my mind is—well, I’ve been thinking—”
“The point, Mike?”
He charged ahead. “It’s not fair what you’re doing to me. You’re not giving me a chance to work, and I want to know why.”
Anderson’s eyes opened a little wider at the tone of his voice, but she didn’t even bother to lay her papers down. She just shook her head and leaned one hip against the edge of her desk. “I believe I told you that I’m not going to be telling you why I do anything, Mike. I’m the Trainer and you’re the student—you figure it out.”
“But—if I’m the student, shouldn’t I be learning things? I mean, shouldn’t you be teaching me something? I’m glad to help, don’t get me wrong, but what does running errands have to do with slave training?”
“Why, that’s another good question, Mike,” Anderson said with a slight, slight smile. Her eyes were rigidly cold, though. “Apply yourself to it, why don’t you?”
Michael stopped himself from saying that he didn’t know, but no new answers came to him. He stared at her, eye to eye, and felt a weird, prickling sensation, like he had said something wrong again, or that she was asking something of him in some secret language he couldn’t understand. What have I done now? he thought wildly. Or, what should I be doing? There was an air of expectation around her, something she was waiting for, and the anger at not knowing what to say burst through him.
“How the hell am I supposed to figure it out if you don’t say anything to me?” he snapped. “You don’t even give me a clue! It’s not fair!”
“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t—but we’re not on a playground here, buckaroo. Complaining that something’s not fair ain’t gonna get you nothin’. You either keep up, or you fail. There’s a reason why you’re all alone here. Think about it.” She indicated that he open the door, and when he did, passed him on her way upstairs. Over her shoulder, she said casually, “Please tell Mr. Parker that I’ll be down later on to work with Tara. I won’t be eating dinner with you boys tonight.”
How could things go from bad to worse so quickly? Michael waited until he was calm again before he left the room. It took a few mi
nutes. He struggled with the urge to head upstairs, toss his suitcase on the bed, and call the fucking airport for the first flight home. But there’s no turning back, he reminded himself. Back home is nothing.
Well, here is pretty nothing too, his other inner voice snapped.
He headed for the dining room, where Parker was already seated, looking sharp except for that new beard growing in. It would probably look nice when it was finished, Michael thought charitably. I guess when you’re that short, you go for anything that ups your masculinity. That petty observation helped a little—he was even able to smile as he took his seat.
“Anderson’s not coming to dinner,” he said lightly, tossing his napkin in his lap. “She says she’ll see you later to work with Tara.”
“Thank you,” Chris said pleasantly.
Tara entered almost immediately, and started to serve. Vicente poked his head in for compliments, as usual, and the silence that reigned was almost as effective an appetite suppressant as that vague feeling of nausea which had returned after he had been so casually dismissed by the Trainer. Michael poked at the food, knowing that the soup was excellent and the bread was probably as good as bread got—but that he was also in no mood to enjoy them. Tara was her usual well behaved self, earning nothing more interesting than one quick stern look from Chris when she touched the rim of a glass with the water pitcher.
God! How could he not compare this austere setting with dinner at home (why was he thinking of Geoff’s place as home?), with everyone serving or kneeling on the floor waiting for choice tidbits and lewd caresses. The clatter of the silver and china was always drowned out by happy chatter and gossip, plus the various reports of who had gotten into trouble today, and what had been done about it. Noisy and friendly and just a little bit chaotic. Where the figure of authority was more like a really cool dad than a cold, distant... Don’t even think that word, Michael cautioned himself.
The Trainer Page 6
