Geoff preferred a different set of movements—damn, he was doing it again! I have to stop comparing her to Geoff, Michael promised himself. I have to stop thinking about what used to be.
He straightened up and cupped Tara’s rear in his hands. By touching her, he interrupted the smooth movements of the series of display postures. She stayed still, betraying her surprise with a little murmuring sound.
“Six days is a long time between screws, isn’t it, Tara?”
“As you say, sir,” she replied. Her voice sounded strange at that angle, muffled by her bent over posture, tense with the unfamiliarity of the situation. Michael grinned and smacked her on the left cheek, lightly.
“That’s a good stock answer; it’ll work with most guests and one-time users. Now, pretend I’m the Judge. Tell me the truth.”
“Please sir, I am very satisfied with my use, sir!”
“So once every six days is good for you?”
“Yes, sir!”
He tapped her thighs a little more apart and slid one hand between her legs. Under a short layer of pubic hair—another change from what he was used to—she was soft, and a little wet, opening easily to his touch. He pinched one fold of her labia, kneading it in his fingers, and listened to the soft moans she made.
“Tell me who screwed you six days ago,” he said, continuing to work her flesh.
“Please, sir, I’m forbidden to.”
Damn! Well, there was no need to try and go further on that topic. If she was forbidden, then that was it—
But on the other hand, would an employee of her master know that? He grinned and pulled her up by a fistful of hair. She gasped as her body came up next to his. He pressed his erection against her ass, letting her know what he was feeling, perhaps what he was thinking. With the hand that used to be on her sex, he reached around her to take hold of a nipple.
“You can tell me,” he crooned, falling easily into a cajoling, seductive tone. He pulled her head back onto his shoulder, and looked down at her body, now taut against his. Her ass felt good against his groin, and he shifted her comfortably. “Come on, who took you to bed? Was is Parker? Does he have a great big dick?” He pinched the nipple, hard, and she arched her back just a little, not exactly fighting him, but reacting strongly just the same.
Oh, that was nice.
“Please, sir, I am not permitted to tell!”
Firm, but with respect. Also damn good. And what was that? Just a little wiggle in the butt, scraping against him, so distracting, so appeasing! Damn, she was good!
“Was it Anderson?” he whispered into her ear, stopping to nibble on the earlobe. He never let her go, only shifted her body against his. “Did you go down on her like a good girl? Did she finger you open, like I will?”
“I—I beg your pardon, sir—I may not answer those—those questions! Ah!”
That nipple turned out to be perfect for eliciting response. Just one sharp twist, and she stumbled over words. Good, something can shake up that Anderson-trained perfection. He turned her toward the table and bent her over the edge.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said drawing both hands across her ass again. “Maybe I shouldn’t be asking. Maybe I should be doing.” If she had been told not to do anything sexual with him, now would be the time to hear about it. Or, maybe he could just do an extended teasing thing. Spank her a little, maybe finger her. Get her hot. But leave the dick in the pants. Until he was absolutely sure he could take that liberty. That would be the safe way, he decided. “You’re just a slave,” he said out loud, caressing her boldly. “I can do this whenever I want to, can’t I?
“Yes, sir, as you wish!” She gave a little moan as his fingers reached up between her legs again and casually invaded her. So, he could screw her! Fantastic! Damn—if only he had his training kit, with the stiff paddles and slender riding crops, the clamps and clips, the heavy gags and the body-filling plugs! But his instructions were to bring no fetish gear with him—and now, all he had on hand were his hands and maybe some binder clips in one of the desk drawers. No time for that. Not when there was this enticing butt right in front of him, with a cute cunt right underneath!
He swung his hands together and impacted on her flesh with a heavy smack that made her body inch up on the table. Her breath left her body all at once, and she cradled her head in her arms, little whimpers escaping.
“Come on, push that sweet butt out to me, that’s it,” Michael said, taking another swat. “This is what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir!” She did as he instructed, rising up on her toes in order to push her rear toward him and his punishing hands. Watching as she tensed for another hard spank, Michael smiled and trailed his fingers across her flesh instead, curving down her buttocks to her thighs, where once again he prodded until she adjusted her position to spread them wider.
Well, this was a nice change from the coolly efficient bookkeeper image she normally presented! This was a slave—a nicely turned out, eager-for-pleasure-or-pain slave.
The trick was to keep her on the edge until just before Anderson returned, and then watch her as she collected herself and got back to work. Yeah, he thought, as he continued to fondle her. I can fuck her later. When I’m really, really sure I can. But maybe, in this role as an employee, I’d just try to get away with this light stuff.
He gasped as he realized the truth of that. Of course, as an employee, he wouldn’t try to fuck his boss’s girl! Especially if I knew that the boss fucked her! “This is a test for you, too,” was more or less what Anderson had said. So even if Tara didn’t tell him he couldn’t... would he? As part of this role playing exercise? Snatching a glance at the wall clock, he stroked her again, trailing his fingers through her soft pubic hair, snaking his index finger gently along the slit. She moaned and pressed softly back.
“Okay!” he said loudly, pulling away. He smacked her ass hard and walked back to his place at the table. “Guess we should be getting back to work here!”
She gasped and the color deepened in her face. She waited until she rose to face him to say, softly, “Yes, sir. Thank you for calling my attention to duty, sir.” Then, she carefully went back to her own spot and picked up her papers. She trembled slightly—but she didn’t collapse into a chair or take great big gulping breaths. Instead, she marshaled her composure—took measured breaths and looked studiously attentive until she started to calm down. Then, she ran her fingers through her mussed hair to smooth it down.
Anderson arrived a minute later. Perfect timing. Michael congratulated himself on making the right choice.
The exercise ran most of the day, and it was a sweet torment for them both. By mid-afternoon, Michael was so horny he felt ready to explode, but the excitement, the sheer tension of concentrating on the mundane task, teasing Tara and playing time games with Anderson was so exhilarating that he didn’t much care. The Trainer caught him several times, walking in while he had Tara bent over backward across the table, one hand at her cleft, the fingers of his other hand easing in and out of her pursed mouth. He coughed and let her go, but Anderson didn’t make any comment. She just delivered her new task and left, Tara following her. And when Tara did return, there were warm, pink marks on her ass and shoulders. But still, she didn’t make any official protest when Michael guided her onto his lap so he could play with her nipples.
Well, this was more like it! When Anderson came in at about 3:30, a clipboard in one hand, Michael was feeling pretty damn pleased with himself. He had played his role very well, and the opportunity to watch Tara at work was invaluable. He had been very good about holding himself back. Surely, this had marked the start of his real training.
“Time’s up,” Anderson announced as she entered. “Mike, you’d be fired, but Tara did fairly well.”
He laughed. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want me working for me!”
“Easily distracted,” Anderson agreed. “Tara, get yourself cleaned up for the kitchen. Mike, you start working on your impre
ssions of the exercise. I’ll want to read them after dinner.”
“After dinner, right.” Belatedly he stood, cursing to himself after she left. Damn, how was he going to remember to do that? Well, he had bigger problems to deal with. His first homework assignment. Geoff hadn’t been real big on written reports, but he audio and video taped everything.
Shit, there I go again, he thought, pushing the leftovers from the day’s task to one side. I can’t help but think of how we used to do things. It would be easier to be able to switch the camera on and talk about what he’d seen, describe Tara’s actions and responses with his hands and body moving, to communicate with grins and raised eyebrows and all that body language that was so important to Geoff. Body language—it was another central idea about training, another key toward control and behavior. It could reveal so much more than words could—but it could mislead, too.
He picked up a yellow legal pad and wrote the date and time at the top of the first page. The last time he had filed a report on a slave had been the worst; it was hard to get it out of his mind.
And Parker knew about it. Fuck and double fuck.
Chapter Eight
Two years with Geoff, living, thinking and breathing slavery. But it wasn’t his entire life—the Marketplace, that is. There was still what he liked to call the secular SM world out there, the places where people who didn’t live it all the time went to hang out and share experiences and good times. On a planned weekend away from work he had gone to Leather Forever, a three-day conference put on by the International SM Activist Organization, the group people called “Is-Mao,” like a bad old Communist joke. God, what fun it was, to go and wander among all the people who were inches away from folks who were actually living a lifestyle that most of them dared not dream of.
Not that many of them would want it, he had found out. Hell, kinky sex was easy enough to manage! You found out what you were into, found a group of local people into the same thing, and dated around until you found the partner who best suited your fetish or paraphilia. You did the couple thing, sleeping together, living together, getting married if you were het, maybe doing the domestic partnership thing if you weren’t. You had the box of toys under your bed or in the closet or the chiffonier, or maybe you set up the second bedroom or the basement with over-designed wooden crosses and frames. You bought the jacket, the keychain, the deerskin whips, and the Japanese nipple clamps, and you purchased white plumbers candles and lengths of rope and chain.
But in the meantime, you still had that job to go to, and that family that needed attention. You still watered the lawn or went to the shareholders meeting, paid the bills, played softball or pool, or watched Monday Night Football. No matter who was on the bottom when you pulled out the toys and played, you still watched TV, had your favorite shows, went to movies, or to do some bowling, or ballroom dancing. You had fights over family, money, the kids or lack of kids. You kissed and made up. You had nice, gentle sex on Saturday mornings. You planned vacations. You lived a real life—and had a secret pastime your neighbors didn’t need to know about. If you were really an exhibitionist, you went on television talk shows.
Who would want to screw something up like that? It was better than what a lot of people had. At least you had a context for those feelings of control or lack thereof. You could get away from the boss by tying up the spouse. Forget the economy while you’re tickling your lover’s ribs with a silky whip. Lose yourself in a cocoon of Saran Wrap; much better than the bubble bath women’s magazines were always suggesting as the cure-all for stress.
And, if you were devoted enough, you’d buy more clothes and toys and take off every once in a while for one of these weekend events, where you could mingle with a few hundred other perverts in leather, show off your play style or learn new ones and go home, secure in the knowledge that you were not alone. Hell, you were in the forefront of the sexual outlaw movement—if there could honestly be such a thing.
Marketplace people either loathed or loved such affairs; there was rarely a middle ground. Some had come out of that very world, pushing their love and lifestyle faster and harder until someone spotted them and tested them and brought them into the fold when the time was right. Some had never known that world, raised in the ultra-rarefied world of those born to the Marketplace, raised in households that had owned slaves, or, like Joan, raised by slaves themselves, always aware of the opportunity to serve or be served. But regardless of their background, Marketplace people knew one major caveat about what was sometimes called the Soft World—it could be highly dangerous.
Not to one’s physical safety, but to the Marketplace itself. Lose your sense of caution with the wrong people, and you could have an explosive situation on your hands. It was absolutely necessary that the Marketplace be considered mythical for it to survive. People who carried over-romanticized ideals about the potential quality of outsiders were always warned away from trying to act as spotters. Leave that to the professionals, was the constant advice. Spotters spend years sifting, they know what to ask, what to do, what reactions to look for. So don’t ever invite a stranger to partake, don’t volunteer information unless you’ve had years of experience, seen, heard and met many Marketplace folk and can know the feel of one.
This seemed reasonable, and Michael had followed the generally accepted rules about confidentiality. To gain access to the soft world, he joined some local SM and leather organizations, presenting himself as a mostly heterosexual topman, a master. It was so tempting to play with the women he met, to romance them, knowing that he could take them home and make them really know what a master was like—but he didn’t. Geoff was proud of his self-restraint.
“A trainer has to be aware of their temptations and be able to know when to indulge and when to resist,” he would say, patting Michael reassuringly on the back. “It’s great that you can have a good time at these events—and they’ll help you a lot, especially when we’re dealing with clients who come out of that tradition.”
That was Geoff, all the way—he could always find something encouraging to say.
So, there he was, resplendent in his leather jeans, his black shirt and the leather vest, little colorful cloisonné pins showing off where he’d been and who had given him a token of their esteem. He was looking forward to the panel discussions, the demonstrations, and especially the dealer‘s room, where he was bound to find some new toy to bring back and show off. Geoff had recently presented him with the designer leather bag he gave all of his trainers when they reached a certain level of ability, and Michael was eager to fill it with fancy toys of all sorts. He’d already gotten some real beauties in terms of whips, but felt he could use a nice wooden paddle, a riding crop or two, a big, fat, ball gag, and maybe one of those bullwhips, too. One as long as he was tall, perhaps, in gleaming black. He already knew where to learn how to use one—Geoff had an expert come by once in a while to teach all the trainers.
As he scanned the hotel lobby, there was a sense of almost juvenile excitement in the air, a camaraderie of souls, if not lifestyles. Leathermen swaggered by, denim-covered asses and crotches squeezed into erotic packages by skin-tight leather chaps. Dykes in vaguely imitation mode swung their hips and jangled with dangling keys and spiky haircuts. Heterosexual couples walked in arm in arm only to show up later with one half wearing a collar and the other half holding a leash. Furtive single men and searching women dotted the fringes, casting lingering gazes over each other, gauging orientation, tastes, expertise.
A playground for perverts. Michael wanted to hug himself with delight. He could spot the Marketplace people he knew instantly, but never even suggested that he recognized them, nor did they acknowledge him. It was no loss—he could socialize with them anytime! This was a weekend for strange faces and a few laughs.
“What do you think?” he asked the vendor, twisting to catch his reflection in the angled mirror.
“Oh, it’s you,” exclaimed the heavyset, bearded man, his voice strangely gentle and soft
. “Really sets off those amazing eyes.”
And it did, too. The chrome band on the brim of the cap settled neatly over the bridge of his nose, and the triangular segments of blue were even more arresting than usual. Yeah, black everywhere, down to that heavy ring around the blue, and then these bright orbs, staring right back at you...
“I’ll take it.”
“Great! That’ll be eighty dollars.”
Michael snorted. Eighty dollars for a fucking hat! Oh well. Training didn’t pay much, but it did include room and board, so he could splurge once in a while. If he didn’t get any new toys this time around, he’d come out under budget. And maybe Uncle Niall might be counted on for a bullwhip at Christmas. He paid the money and turned back to the room, now confident that he would turn every head there or die trying.
“That’s a great cover, sir,” came another astonishingly high and sweet-sounding voice from next to him. He turned, prepared to flirt , and found himself looking down into a pair of eyes as eager as his own, surrounded by masses of light brown curls. She was almost a full head shorter than he was, and round-bodied, a full, sensuous chest that spoke of delightfully pillowy breasts, and a bottom that was made for spanking. His heart leapt in time with his dick—here was tonight’s entertainment for sure!
“That was very bold of you,” he said with a smile.
She smiled back and sweetly lowered her eyes. Nope, no chain or bulky leather collar around her neck. He glanced down toward her hands, but couldn’t spot the flash of a ring, either. “I’m Mike.”
“Karen,” she said, extending her hand. He kept the smile in place, amused at the gesture, but shook her hand firmly.
“Pleased to meet you, Karen, and I’m glad you like the hat. Would you be looking for company by any chance?”
Her smile broadened. “You read my mind!”
The Trainer Page 10
