The Trainer

by Laura Antoniou

  It was interesting to watch Joan at work, though. Tara already had her skills when Michael arrived—Joan was still learning them. And just as it was fascinating to see her improve during the first weeks in all the movements and speech patterns, it was equally interesting to watch her try to keep one step ahead of him.

  Her major fault was in misjudging time. She tended to come in too early, stand ready for too long. It was a common beginner’s habit, Anderson told him. They’d rather be early than late, because lateness was almost universally thought of as rude. But being too early had its disadvantages as well.

  “An early chauffeur makes his master feel pressured to leave. Early meals get cold, or wither. Early erotic attention is inappropriate; early personal attention is intrusive. The client has to be like an actor and make their entrance at the right time, and hit their mark.”

  At least Michael always had something new to write about in his journal. He would need a new book soon; probably should have started one as soon as Tara left. But no one told him about these things—he had to figure them all out by himself. It was a pain.

  But still, he kept silent. He refused to complain to Anderson, and even kept discussions with Vicente, whom he now was allowed to call Vic, to neutral topics, like music and movies and sports. He was totin’ that water and choppin’ that wood—and sooner or later, the Trainer would whack him with some sort of metaphorical stick, and the real training would begin.

  In the privacy of his own room, he timed himself doing small tasks, and began to anticipate Joan’s arrival. He enjoyed having her as a valet—someone helping him dress always made him feel positively decadent. But she rarely made the right choices in clothes, and he felt bad for her when she was scolded for it. It didn’t seem fair—he didn’t have any regular schedule of what he wore. He just opened the closet door and picked out what felt right that morning. How was she expected to know? Chris was really easy—pick out any dress shirt, a tie that went with it, and boom, instant outfit. He probably didn’t really care anyway.

  It struck him as odd the first time he realized that he had taken Joan’s choice in clothing, despite not liking it. It didn’t exactly work, because Anderson pointed out that the shirt and tie had never been paired before in her sight, and quizzed him about whether or not he had ever expressed a desire to wear then together. He hadn’t realized that she had paid so much attention to how he dressed—yet she knew better than he did! Joan ended up getting a talking to about how to judge Michael’s tastes better. She even had to apologize to him!

  But he had taken her choice because he was afraid to correct her himself. No, not afraid—he actually didn’t want to. It didn’t seem like a big deal to him to wear a more conventional outfit, or a more conservative one, if that was what she thought was best, even though he would have chosen differently. He wanted to praise her, wanted to see her make that tiny nod she did when he accepted something and she knew she had chosen correctly. And, lately, he was actually trying to save her from punishment. He had never done anything like that before.

  As spring began, the house gained a new client. Michael hadn’t even known that he was coming—he just appeared at the door, suitcase in hand, a broad grin on his face. Anderson greeted him with a big hug—apparently, he had been there before.

  “Michael, this is Lorens. He’s from God-knows-how-to-pronounce it, in Denmark.”

  “I am very honored to make your acquaintance, sir,” Lorens said in excellent English. Michael shook his hand, and marveled. Now, here was a classic slave. Lorens stood about a hand taller than Michael, and had broad, straight shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair was a bleached, almost white-blonde, cut in a military crew that didn’t really suit him. His eyes were a clear, light blue. He was a type, the Viking conqueror, the muscular ski instructor. His big hands would gave a hell of a massage, and those sweet little-boy eyes probably charmed more than one society matron into behaving scandalously. He was the cover of a romance novel come to life.

  “I told him over the phone that he was in luck,” Anderson said, patting the big man fondly. “I seem to have an abundance of trainers and I’m down to only one client. A perfect time to polish him up.”

  “What is he here for?” Michael asked.

  “Lorens has hit the jackpot. His lady is ready to take him on for the rest of her life. He’s doing one final session with me as a gift to her. You’re so sweet you give me cavities, Lorens, but you’ve got it where it counts.” She punched him on the bicep and twitched her head toward the back of the house. “You know where to go, big boy. Come back when you’re unpacked and properly dressed. We’ll do the interview as soon as you’re ready.”

  “At once, Trainer!”

  Watching him stride down the hallway, Michael whistled. “Jeez. Arnold, watch your back.”

  “Yes, he is a big fellow, isn’t he? Always was. The first owner to send him to me exhibited him—bodybuilding, you know, the tours and the contests. He’s won several. I think he was Mr. Scandinavia or something like that one year.”

  “I believe it. He belongs to someone else now? Why? Did he start losing?”

  “Yes—interest. Lorens is a slave—he’s never wanted to be anything but in service. The demands of his tours, the endless competitions, the celebrity status—they just weren’t what he wanted. He was sent to me mostly at his request for more traditional slave training—his original owner actually wanted very little from him in terms of service.” She shook her head, seemingly amazed at the foolishness of such a man. “When his contract ran out, he didn’t choose to renew. Came to the United States to try the market here, and found that he couldn’t be guaranteed a buyer who wouldn’t do the exact same thing with him. That was when he came back to me.”

  She smiled and shook her head again, this time in amusement. “My, that was a challenge. Here was a man made to be shown off—and all he wanted was the quiet security of personal service.”

  “But you’re never in control when you get on the block,” Michael said. “He could get any training he likes, but it’s up to the buyers to choose him. I mean, Geoff used to try to match buyers and slaves, but it doesn’t always work out that way.”

  “No, it doesn’t, although I occasionally do that sort of specialty work myself. For special clients. So, I kept him for, oh, eight months, I think.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Yep. Made him the best darn personal servant a body could ask for. And then, I had him registered through a small sales house, and listed him as a domestic. His first sale netted him so little, he had to sign on for two more years just to pay me back.”

  “I thought you took a percentage.”

  “No. I generally charge fees. I know what I’m worth, and I don’t leave it up to the market to determine my value. I also take a percentage on resales. The number of sales or years depends on the time someone spends with me. It all works out in the end.”

  “Oh.” Michael wondered how much the Trainer made—it couldn’t be much, if she lived with only one servant in this relatively common house in Brooklyn. She’s cheating herself, he thought. If she got a good percentage on every slave she trained, she’d be filthy rich by now. But then, to have to serve for four years to pay your trainer back? How much was that worth? He blinked and looked at her as she continued.

  “When he left that contract, he decided to go back on the block and try again. Apparently, three times is the charm. He was purchased by a woman who lives in Seattle and writes novels. She wanted someone to take care of her, give her back rubs and make her soup. Originally, she thought she was going to buy a woman—instead, she bought Lorens. He had the skills, he had the temperament—and he types.”

  Michael laughed. “How long ago was that?”

  “Six years. They had a two-year contract, and then a four-year one. This year, on his anniversary, he told me that they wanted to make the arrangement permanent. That’s—pretty rare.” Anderson nodded again, looking pleased with herself.

  �
��You’d think that after six years, he wouldn’t need any more training.”

  “He probably doesn’t.” That was Chris, who was standing in the doorway. He must have seen Lorens in the back. Michael wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, listening. “I’m sure she has him trained to everything she needs. But this gives him a way to make the separation between the Marketplace and the rest of his life. He’ll be in formal training one more time, making sure that he needs nothing else, and he’ll have this time to reflect on the commitment he’s about to make. When he gets back to her, he will be her slave in truth—committed by honor and integrity to serve her until her death—or until she sends him away.”

  “Oh, everyone could use a little bit of training, no matter where they are in their abilities,” Anderson said.

  Chris smiled and bowed. “As you say, Trainer.”

  She laughed. “Okay, let’s start changing things around here. Chris, you’re assigned to Mr. Scandinavia, but you’re still overseeing Joan. Mike, you start drilling Joan tomorrow, using Chris’s schedule—and his methods. Am I understood, gentlemen?”

  They chorused, “Yes, Trainer!” and she grinned.

  “Now, that’s what I like to hear. Dismissed!” She turned on her heel and went into her office, closing the door behind her. Michael looked at Chris with that sinking feeling settling into his stomach. It was justified. The look in Chris’s eyes clearly said, “Your ass is mine.”

  The woman had to be a sadist, Michael decided. A genuine, extremely pathological, I-want-to-make-people-cry sadist. Sending him away would have been kinder than turning him officially over to Mr. Perfection. And to have them work together on the woman who was supposed to be Michael’s project?

  But working together wasn’t quite the idea, was it? No, it was training Michael in the Chris Parker school of perfection, where trainers who didn’t know how to demonstrate things were a little less thought of than, say, your garden variety slug. Where the trainer had to be the very essence of control, touching harshly only to teach or correct, tenderly and briefly to praise. A trainer does not take advantage of their position of authority, oh, no. At least a junior trainer doesn’t. Which was what Michael was.

  It was pretty annoying having to actually take notes on that stuff. But Michael never knew when Anderson was going to swoop down and ask for the journal, so he wrote and wrote, dutifully recording whatever Chris told him during the day. He consoled himself with the fact that he was finally in some kind of formal training. He also decided that his time with Chris was a test of sorts—Anderson was most likely making sure that he was committed to the job. He’d probably pretty well established that he’d keep doing the little household tasks and helping with the role playing exercises as long as she wanted him to—this was probably step two.

  It was hitting him with a big motherfucking stick.

  And despite his basic disagreements with Chris on some methods, it was fun to get back into proper training. It was similar to Geoff’s style only on the surface—Joan was far more experienced than most of the slaves who ended up with Geoff. She was already a competent slave—now, they were making her into an exemplary one.

  It was also good to be able to get back into the interview portion of training. Michael had never realized how truly vital those regular interviews were until he had participated in Tara’s training without ever being allowed to attend her interviews with Anderson. Watching and listening to Chris and Joan, he now realized how bad his own interviews were, and how shallow. From time to time, he felt a deep sense of chagrin. Why had he spent so much time fucking and playing and so little time actually asking questions and listening to the answers?

  Even Geoff interviewed every day—he called it part of the communication process. Michael called it excess. Anderson recommended alternate day interviews for two weeks, and then once a week thereafter for the remainder of the training, wrapping up in daily brush up and review sessions the week before a slave left. And of course, at any time there might be a quick question-and-answer period, or a closer examination of something triggered by the flash of resentment or resignation in a slave’s eyes, or a second of hesitation or a word said in the wrong inflection.

  For the first interview with Joan, Michael remembered his first week and his disastrous first session with her, but Chris merely invited him to sit and take notes if he wanted to. Michael did, and relaxed as the process began.

  Interviews were always different—you could ask a prearranged series of questions, administer an IQ test, or simply sit back and chat about topics of interest. The idea was to use the time to get to know everything possible about the client, not only their history of experiences, but their thoughts and feelings, likes and dislikes, their deepest fears and grandest hopes and fantasies. Knowing all these things allowed a trainer to not only design the proper program for a client, but to decide what could be used as a marketing angle. Or, in a case like Joan’s, what could be reported to the owner as a potential resource or weakness.

  Chris’s first displayed style was direct and military. He would ask a question and want it answered right away, phrased properly, and with the proper inflection and emphasis. It was a little unnerving. But Joan took it well—she was poised, most of the time, and displayed very little fear when Chris raised his voice or slammed the desk for emphasis. Michael found out why.

  “My trainer in Japan was a very... loud individual,” she explained. “He used to shout at me quite a bit—every day, as a matter of fact. He would lean over me, and scream at the top of his lungs, and expect me to scream my answer back until we were both quite red in the face. Any time I would flinch, he would hit me. Soon, I learned not to flinch. Soon after that, I learned how not to feel like I should be flinching, which was much more difficult.”

  “Good instinct,” Chris commented. “It’s one thing to steel yourself against discomfort or fear. It’s another thing entirely to create a place where you just don’t feel them.”

  “How do you do that?” Michael asked, writing furiously. “Create a place? You mean, like in self-hypnosis?”

  “Very good, Mike.” Chris nodded encouragingly and Michael concentrated on writing. Every time Chris did that, his tone of voice would carry such an air of condescension it was infuriating!

  “One of the most important things a client learns when confronted by aggression is how to remain calm when it is called for, and how to maintain personal discipline in protocol,” Chris explained. “It will not do to snap back at the mistress or whine at your housekeeper.”

  Joan shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, Chris, I shall never do that!”

  Chris seemed to start nodding, his head moving down as if to glance at his own notes, and suddenly he leaned over, his face within inches of Joan’s, so fast that Michael jumped in his chair. The senior trainer barked, “Then what will you do when confronted with your sloppy manners by someone who knows much better than you, missy?”

  While Mike’s heart pounded, Joan only dipped her own head in a gesture of humility and submission and said, softly, “It is entirely my fault, Chris, and I will strive to better myself; thank you for your correction.”

  Chris leaned back and shrugged. “Not bad. But you must watch the habit of automatically apologizing all the time. It can become cloying. And, there will be times when you are not at fault and it will be important to make that clear. But that should be rare—your owners are fairly well used to managing their staff, and your housekeeper, Mrs. Harrison, is a very reasonable woman.”

  “How do you know that?” Michael asked without thinking.

  Chris looked over to him and cocked his head. “I made enquiries,” he said rationally. “I interviewed Mrs. Harrison before Joan got here.”

  Of course he did, Michael thought morosely. Interviewing the staff where a client was going to work, well, of course he did that. As Chris directed his attention back to Joan, Michael lost himself in his bitter thoughts. It just wasn’t fair, no matter what Anderson thought about
fairness. Not only was Michael learning from the man who did everything right and never screwed up, but Chris was always just on that edge of patient humor—when he wasn’t being sarcastic and cutting.

  But it didn’t stop him. He kept asking questions, and kept taking the damn notes. It was hardly the first time he felt so humiliated. After all, the resolution of the Karen affair was just about as painful, and dragged on for much longer than one would have thought.

  Michael had returned to Geoff’s place with only one goal in mind—to forget that Karen ever existed. He had told Geoff and the other trainers there that he had a girlfriend he was visiting, thus explaining his weekend absences. But he never made mention of the kinds of things he was doing with her. It wasn’t common to have what the other trainers often maliciously called a “vanilla” lover on the side—in fact, it was almost unheard of, unless some sort of parental subterfuge was going on. It was conventional wisdom that said Marketplace people should date each other—better to not have this secret looming over a potentially intimate relationship.

  Michael had finally realized why this was conventional wisdom. He was in a rotten mood, nervous and snappy, and was called to Geoff’s large, airy office to explain why.

  “I—I broke up with my girlfriend,” he stammered, twisting his hands together and finding the colors of Geoff’s pseudo-Impressionist paintings utterly fascinating, much better to look at than Geoff’s fatherly eyes. “It was a rough weekend. It was—real bad.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Geoff said immediately, wrapping one arm around Michael’s shoulder. “It’s always tough to lose a lover. Why don’t you take a day or two off? You’re much too tense to manage the clients. Breakups can leave a person with a lot of negative energy, and you might fall into some bad reactive behaviors without even knowing it. Go over to my beach house, or to your uncle’s for a few days, until you cool down. If you feel like it, maybe you can call her and get back together. If not, maybe a few days of rest and quiet meditation will help stabilize you. We need you here, Mike. We care about you. Help yourself; take some time to heal.”