The Trainer

by Laura Antoniou

  And when he finished with fucking her, he tumbled her over onto her back and played with her body, one hand on her pussy, while he leaned on his elbow. “You needed to get fucked,” he said with a grin. “Hell, you need this every day.”

  “As you say, sir,” she breathed, her hips moving up slightly. His fingers parted her wet lips and slid between them—she had seemed tight, a little dry. Well, she is older, Michael reflected. He resolved to have her bring some lube next time, since the slick surface of the condom wasn’t sufficient. He’d had wonderful experiences with a cinnamon-flavored one that left a tingly sensation on sensitive tissues. The idea of making her buck a little more under him left him intrigued. He stabbed his fingers into her, where his cock had so recently plundered, and she did moan and spread her legs wider.

  Now, that was a slave reaction, he thought smugly. A sudden guilty flash hit him—he really should have interviewed her before fucking. Yesterday’s little condom fetching exercise had been devoid of any formal questioning. And by the time he had her in here with one of those condoms unrolling over his cock, he had forgotten about his great idea to conduct an interview while fucking her. He sighed, and her eyes turned to him immediately.

  “Please let me tend to you, sir,” she whispered, her light hand resting gently on his chest. He nodded, interested in what that could mean, and watched her roll herself gracefully up and off the bed. She found the used condom and threw it away, and ran a hand towel under warm water and brought it back to wipe him down. He grinned and allowed her—there had been times at Geoff’s when a pleasure slave had done this, and it was always nice. It was clear that Tara was no pleasure slave, though—her movements were neat and sure, but they lacked a certain edge of sensuality. She didn’t show him with every move that she wanted him, needed him.

  “Touch me more when you do that,” he instructed. “Show me how much you liked it, you little slut. You are a slut for your master, aren’t you?”

  Tara colored, but obeyed him, and trailed her fingers on his body as she finished her task. “I am whatever he wishes me to be, sir,” she said evasively, dipping her head with the slightest of smiles.

  Michael leaned back and laughed. “Oh, yeah, you’re a slut for him,” he said confidently. “Does he just fuck you the normal way? Or does he like blowjobs, anal sex, kinky stuff? Does he tie you up and beat you sometimes?”

  “He is a man of many... tastes,” Tara said as she put the towel aside and cuddled up next to Michael in the spot he indicated for her.

  “I’m a man of many tastes, too,” Michael said, taking one of her breasts in one hand and pressing. “Let’s see how many new ones I can show you. Are you going to suck my cock like a good girl? Open wide for me like the little slave slut you are deep inside? I can see right past this professional attitude you have. You need someone to take you, don’t you? Just push you down and make you a real slave girl.”

  “As you—”

  “No, no, I don’t want to hear that. Just say yes. Say, yes, I need to be taken. Make me believe it! Or else—” He pinched her nipple sharply. “There may not be too many sex toys around here, but I know where there are some clothespins. So, say it and mean it.”

  “Yes, sir!” she said, with the slightest of gasps. “Yes, please, I need someone to take me, sir, I do!”

  “Good!” Michael declared, letting her go. “Well, until you go back to your master, I’m that man. So, I want to hear more sounds from you, and lots more begging. Disappoint me, and you’ll be punished. Harshly!” He pondered how to appropriately structure punishments without his training kit, and decided he’d need to assemble a makeshift one of household items. He could just keep it in his room. If Parker could have his damn strap, surely a handful of clothespins, some rope, and maybe a cheap riding crop wouldn’t be out of the question. He waved one hand, dismissing Tara, and she backed away from him gently.

  What could he say about this little session with her? It was perfect. Lacking somewhat in true passion, but she wasn’t in love with him, now was she? No slave could love everyone who used them, many never even love their masters. You could only expect that they loved the service—that they loved being useful, and being used. And Tara showed every sign of being devoted to her task, down to the way she brushed her hair over his toes before she quietly gathered up her dress and shoes and tiptoed out the door. He wiggled his toes after she left, enjoying the memory of that silken softness tangling itself up in him. Nice touch. He’d have to remember to write that down.

  He had returned to writing after putting absolutely nothing on paper the previous day. Fortunately for him, Anderson had not asked to see his notes last night or this morning—she probably assumed that he was keeping them up. Still naked, he reached for the notebook he had begun to use, and plucked a pen out of the bed stand drawer. Lying on his belly, he began to describe what he’d just done with Tara, and what her observable reactions were. He tried to be specific—to describe what happened instead of how he felt. Then he transcribed his comments and her answers as best as he could recall them, thinking that he would have to bring the tape recorder in if he was doing his interviews before or after sex.

  He wondered briefly how Tara was taking care of her next task, helping Joan in the kitchen, teaching her how to work with Vicente. Would she still have that sweet after-sex flush? Would she have to excuse herself, splash some water on her face, and compose herself first? Did the two girls share whispered secrets about the trainers, and about what happened in these private sessions?

  He tried to imagine it—Tara and Joan whispering, giggling, sharing confidences. It was difficult. Joan, for all her time in training and the years spent growing up in expectation for the Marketplace, was all natural moves, shy smiles, high-pitched giggles, and expectant glances. Tara was reserved, controlled, her every facial expression planned. It was the mark of someone who was experienced and talented—they overcompensated, trying to be perfect, and hated themselves when they failed. Geoff always said it was a mark of low self-esteem.

  Michael thought that was a bunch of crap. It was just slaves doing the best they could. Some started out confident, others grew into it. It really didn’t matter as long as they did their jobs correctly and weren’t annoying.

  Tara did hate it when she messed up—wincing before even a hint of a reprimand, tending slightly toward sulkiness when she had to wait to be punished. Joan looked embarrassed or ashamed and submitted to her disciplines with a good attitude, always promising to be better in the future. Tara couldn’t understand why she had fucked up in the past.

  That was a good observation, he thought, starting a new paragraph. I better write it down. He did so, adding that Tara could probably use a few more pep talks about pleasing one’s owner, and then rolled onto his back. It was pleasantly warm in the room. Of course, the house had to be kept warm, for the comfort of the occasionally naked slaves. If he wanted to, he could wear shorts and a T-shirt—but he didn’t. Nope—a dress shirt every day, although he was already tired of ties. Leashes made of silk, as far as he was concerned.

  But Parker wore one every day. Jackets, too, most of the time. Neatly pressed pants, rarely jeans, and when he did wear them, they were black Levi’s 501s, never pressed, but neat and crisp-looking on him. Boots, always—lace up, or engineer style, or a short boot that looked correct with the suits yet just a little bit more butch than your average men’s dress boot. Whichever he wore, they were always shined to a mirror-like surface. Michael wondered who did them. Boot polishing didn’t seem like something either girl would be trained to do—although it certainly wasn’t difficult to teach. Good make-work, too.

  Parker, Parker. Michael still hadn’t figured out what he was doing in Anderson’s house. He had done a little catch-up reading in the binders that Anderson had so neatly cataloged and to his chagrin realized that Chris Parker had been around for quite some time. He was mentioned several times in Anderson’s yearly reports, mostly about techniques he had designed for trainin
g novices. And he was even referenced here and there, although Michael didn’t have the heart to look up the articles which were referenced. He didn’t want to read what Chris Parker thought about patience, or motor memory, or... anything else for that matter!

  But he had been working at the entry level house on Long Island for at least three or four years, maybe longer. So why was he here, with the Trainer of Trainers? Surely, he was already as trained as he could be! Was he some special student of hers? She didn’t treat him like a partner or a student, although he treated her like a goddess. If they were lovers, they sure didn’t show it. No, it seemed that he was part guest, part assistant, part acolyte, and all business. His focus was on the house, and what Anderson told him to do, and whatever he was writing when he shut himself away with his computer and sheaves of papers.

  Not that I’m living such a thrilling life myself, Michael reminded himself. But it would be so much easier of he wasn’t here! I wouldn’t have his goddamn example to work against every fucking day. Whatever I’m allowed to do, whatever I get to see, he’s always there, he always lets me know that he’s been around longer, he did all this first. He’s the star pupil, and I’m shit.

  It was frustrating. But at least he was doing something. And if the Trainer of Trainers wanted him to play roles and write notes, dammit, that was exactly what he was going to do, until she told him otherwise. At least now he was getting laid! No more mistakes for him. If anything like what happened with Karen ever happened here, he’d be out of the Marketplace for the rest of his life.

  Suddenly chilly, he got up to get dressed.

  Chapter Ten

  One early afternoon, Chris took Tara with him out of the house on some (as usual) unexplained errand. Much to Michael’s surprise and joy, he got to work with Anderson and Joan for a little while. The Trainer gave him a sheet of questions with their proper answers, and had him drill Joan while Anderson herself watched. Every once in a while, Anderson would change Joan’s posture, covering about twenty different positions in all. She used a combination of voice commands and hand signals, and Michael frantically took notes as often as he could.

  The questions were about housekeeping and wardrobe maintenance and jewelry and... oh, they went on and on. Yet, Joan never missed a single one. Whether kneeling or standing or even crouched in a penitent bow, she could rattle off the way to clean linen of wine stains, set an informal breakfast table, care for opals, or tell mink from fox.

  Again, it was totally devoid of erotic interest. But Michael found himself moved nonetheless. As he asked the questions and read the answers to them, he realized he barely knew one tenth of the things she did, at least about housekeeping and things like that. He had clothing made of silk in his wardrobe—two ties and one shirt and a pair of boxer shorts given to him as a gift. And he knew, generally, that silk should be dry-cleaned. But he didn’t know that there were many kinds of silk, or what their names were. Joan did. And so did Anderson, who did not hold an answer sheet herself, but nodded at every correct point Joan made and then moved her again without waiting for confirmation from Michael.

  Was it necessary to know all these details to be a good slave? Maybe not for most of them. But Joan’s mistress was going to get quite a knowledgeable little maid for her money—one who could be trusted with almost any piece of property before she even entered the door. She might start out dusting and sweeping, but Michael knew that no one in their right mind would keep her there for long.

  Even if she wasn’t meant to sleep with. At the end of the exercise, he returned the quiz sheets to Anderson and went back to his room to write in his journal. He missed Tara’s presence—it would have been nice to get in a quick blowjob. But on the other hand... he sat back in his chair and gazed at the wall for a moment. Was he really horny right now?

  The truth was... not very. He was a little tense, the way he always was when he was allowed to work with Anderson, in any role at all. And he had gotten used to having Tara around for a quick bit of tension release. He turned pages back in the book and re-read the scant comments he made about her, and the descriptions of what position he had fucked her in, and which orifice he had used and whether or not he kept her long enough for two orgasms. The words annoyed him suddenly, and he couldn’t figure out why! Sure, he still wasn’t conducting in-depth interviews with her, but Anderson rarely commented on these notes and when she did, she didn’t scold him or tell him to change tactics. And Tara herself was always willing and capable, and once he started to keep a bottle of lube nearby at all times, she was much more comfortable and receptive.

  So, what was it?

  He lost the desire to continue writing his impressions of the exercise with Joan. He put the book away and slipped into a sweater and headed back downstairs to see if he could find something else to do for a while. He was trying to get into a book about military etiquette when the front bell rang. Joan came out of the kitchen to get it, and he watched her as she moved quickly but without any panicked movements toward the door. Anderson came out of her office and looked down the front hall, and at the sight of her, Michael got up, barely suppressing a sigh. He was finally getting used to standing when she entered a room—and finding out when he should and shouldn’t.

  “Emil!” she said with a warm smile, stepping fully into the hall. “What a pleasure to see you!”

  The man who came forward to take her hand was easily as old as she was, small and vaguely European in appearance. His neat, double-breasted suit was revealed as Joan lifted what looked like a cashmere coat from his shoulders. He had thick, wavy hair, all white, and Anderson had to lean down to kiss his cheek.

  “The pleasure is all mine, all mine,” he insisted, his voice melodious and slightly old fashioned in its intonations. “You were kind to see us on such short notice.”

  Us? Michael started to move forward, even as Anderson was leading Emil into the front living room, and then Michael saw Emil’s companion.

  Michael had gotten used to Tara being the image of feminine beauty in this house, and for one second, he thought the woman in the hallway was her, somehow magically transformed. He saw the pale skin and blonde hair and had to blink to clear his vision again. But it wasn’t Tara at all, but a taller, more shapely and much more classically beautiful woman who entered after Joan took her wrap away. She had a stronger face than Tara, too—with high, arched cheekbones and deep-set ice-blue eyes. Her hair was trimmed very short, with a wave over her forehead. Michael regretted that; he liked long hair on women, and thought that Anderson’s mane of straight black hair shot through with silver was her best feature.

  But with short hair or not, Emil’s companion was quite something! Michael smiled as Anderson made introductory movements.

  “Michael LaGuardia, please meet Doctors Emil Kaufmann and Greta Mueller. Emil, Michael is studying here.”

  “How splendid for you!” the doctor exclaimed, shaking Michael’s hand. His grip was dry and firm, just a little longer than a business handshake. “It is a pleasure, young man.”

  “Thank you,” Michael responded, his eyes flickering to the other doctor. “But like you said, the pleasure is all mine.”

  Dr. Greta Mueller smiled back at him, and Michael felt the first honest surge of arousal he had in days. She was dressed richly, too, in a mid-length turquoise dress with a long jacket over it, and some nice gold jewelry, including a herringbone necklace that should have set someone back a few bucks. He wondered if this power couple was in the market for a slave.

  Dr. Kaufmann glanced from his companion and then back to Michael, but his smile remained genial, not threatened at all. Michael was grateful for that. He’d been the target of far too many territorial snarls from men and their trophy wives—or girlfriends, as the case might be here. It was difficult to tell, with different last names.

  “Tell you what, Emil,” Anderson was saying. “I’ll take my favorite doctor into my office, and Michael can stay with you for a while. Keep Joan useful, Michael.”

/>   Michael couldn’t keep his eyes from opening wide in shock. Was he seriously being told to entertain one of the Trainer’s high-powered friends?

  “I cannot think of anything better,” the doctor responded with a nod. “Please take as long as you like, we have no pressing business to tend to today.”

  Anderson gave a short nod to Michael and then opened her arm for Dr. Mueller to slide under. The two women entered the office and Joan closed the door behind them and then looked at Michael for direction.

  Michael gaped for a second, and then grasped hold of himself. “Right—um—Dr. Kaufmann. Would you like some—coffee? Tea?“

  “Tea sounds lovely,” the older man said, his hands behind his back. Michael waved Joan off, and she curtsied before she left. Then, he turned back to the doctor and waved nervously at the chairs. “Would you like to sit out here?”

  “Splendid!” The man chose the seat Anderson usually sat in, and Michael wondered whether he had actually been waiting to be invited to make himself comfortable. He took the other chair and studied the guest intently, trying to read something from him the way Anderson and Chris kept telling him he should be able to do. Well, all right. Nice, well-cut suit, good shoes, gold watch, gold cufflinks—the man knew how to dress and didn’t spare the expense. He had an old-world style but spoke without a real foreign accent. He looked comfortable with himself, too, and was unthreatened by other men admiring his woman.