Chris landed in sunny California early in the day, and picked up the car reserved for him at the rental counter. It was hot in the City of the Angels. It was always hot in California, he thought. He hadn’t worn the sunglasses since the last time he’d been there, but they still worked. They couldn’t take the edge off the blinding headache, though.
It took about twenty minutes of map-reading plus one stop at a gas station to figure out the way to the Parese and Appleton home, up in the hills. It took another two hours to get there, dealing with traffic and unfamiliar roads. “Just outside of the city” meant different things in different parts of the world.
Robin. Sweet, desperately searching Robin, the sprite of slavery. With her natural patience, and her constant inner struggles to do the right thing, to not fail—oh, she had been a joy to teach. Totally unaware of the impossibility of his plan, she had gone along with everything, offering only the meekest of complaints, enduring what would have terribly confused and probably broken a more gradually trained novice.
It had been so irresponsible of him to take her on. He had been due back at the house in three weeks, and was slumming, spending time with Ron, drinking when he shouldn’t be, picking up hustlers and making them cry. Anything to get his mind off training, and the endless stream of eager novitiates. Trying not to think of the drills, and their faces and bodies. Their hatred. Fear. Contempt. Worship. Love. The eternal confusion of it all.
And then, next to the narrow, teasing eyes of Ken Mandarin, this girl—this small, elfin girl, so bashful and so needy, you could feel it from her. Even standing in a leather bar, the smoke and beer and piss a mask of atmosphere that kept you from thinking of anything but sex, she was like a lure. He couldn’t turn her away.
Being intercepted on the night of her sale had been—interesting. It had provided some new twists to his relationship with Grendel and Alex. Some new aspect of his life to use as a springboard, a way to make things, as Anderson correctly pointed out, more difficult. But even the new teasing wasn’t as difficult for him to endure as the temptation to take Robin to bed had been. Watching Rachel take her pleasure of her, and then watching Gordon Reynolds do her—and knowing that while he was doing Gordon in the master bedroom, Gordon’s slave Leon was fucking Robin in the other room—it had been a personal torment of surprising proportions.
Most... intriguing.
As time passed and his—situation—changed, there were a series of such incidents. The meeting of eyes, and the instantaneous knowing—followed by the hunger and the drive, and ultimately, the separation. But Robin had been the first to belong to him alone.
It was irrational to think that she still did. But there was a distinct lack of rationality in what he had felt when he heard the sputtering voice of her angry owner. It was terrible to lose control like that. But there was never any question about his coming out to get her.
If Anderson had—
But she hadn’t.
He wanted a smoke, very badly. But he kept driving, and didn’t stop for cigarettes.
The houseman was a lithe, feral-looking Hispanic with a soft voice and properly deferential coldness. It would have been more impressive to dress him in elegant whites, razo- pleated soft pants and a billowy shirt, open to show his beautiful chest. But in typical Californian fashion, he was wearing what looked like a bathing suit, in a purple neon.
“I’m Parker. Here to pick up Robin. Where is she?” The anger swelled again, and Chris took a deep breath as the man led him through the house. He barely noticed the place—wide, tall, plenty of light, plenty of air—he barely registered the fireplace, the gleaming, narrow kitchen, the pool glittering out one of the sliding glass doors. He just followed the slave, trying to keep control, and then realized that they were heading out of the house again.
“Where are we going?”
“To the—rear, sir. She’s—outside.” A flash of shame crossed the man’s face, and Chris nodded. The anger had settled high. It wasn’t hot any more. It was cold.
“Take me to her,” he said softly.
There was a shed made of beautifully weathered pine back beyond the pool and the outdoor shower. It did have a poured concrete floor. Chris followed the man and let him open the door, letting light flood over a body striped with welts. For a moment, Chris almost lost it—it couldn’t be Robin, left all alone in a goddamn shed, like a beast. It had to be a mistake—it had to be a nightmare. He stepped forward and looked down. She stirred groggily, and he realized that he had left the bag in the car.
“Well, I can see your masters have afforded her every humane effort,” he said leaning down to examine her. The wounds visible seemed fairly clean. “Has she been here since?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a brown leather bag in my car. Fetch it and bring me a wet towel and a comb.”
The man left immediately, without even a “yes, sir,” and Chris sighed. He stepped into the shed, right up next to Robin and squatted down. She turned, groaning, and shifted onto one side. It took her a moment to focus, especially since she had one hell of a shiner, and one eye was swollen shut. Chris heard a sound behind him, and looked out the door of the shed. There was a man standing out there, some distance away, with long brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. It was Jimmy, one of the owners. They stared at each other for a long minute, and then Chris deliberately turned away and put a slight smile on his face for Robin. Even as he softly said “Hello,” he was fighting the sudden urge to get a tire iron and kill the two men who purchased her and the houseman who was ashamed to reveal what they had done. It passed when Robin tried to get up, her fingers touching his boot as though making sure that he was really there. A glance over his shoulder revealed that the owner was gone. In a minute, the houseman returned with the bag, towel, and comb, and Chris indicated a spot to put them down. He sent him away sharply, and heard the footsteps retreating, but paid no attention to them.
He cradled her in his arms and soothed her. And took her away from there without even attempting to see the owners, who were obviously and wisely hiding from him.
When he arrived back at the house in the early evening, having left Robin drowsy and bandaged, he was ready to meet the men who did this. He had of course, met them once before, on the night of Robin’s sale. He had been slightly disappointed for her—what a shame for such a delightfully sexy young woman to be sold into an all gay male household. It had not escaped Chris that although Robin was happily bisexual, there was a core part of her which reacted most strongly to a woman’s touch, a woman’s voice. But it was a prime opportunity for her—it would give her the chance to develop stronger erotic control. And it would not be a difficult existence—she would get to do the work she loved, and enjoy the life of a full-time slave. Certainly, she had not complained to him in their three telephone conversations. He had taken that as an indication that things had worked out for her.
Apparently not as well as could be expected. Although she had seemed to enjoy a good relationship with her owners and with the three other slaves in the household, someone had quite obviously set her up for this fall.
It was so difficult to really know someone—to see into their heart of hearts and know what tempted them and what made them afraid. Any number of interview sessions would reveal everything but the single secret that would only come out after a tragedy. There were always slaves who got past the psychological testing and the interviews with the potential to defraud or harm their trainers or owners. So it was always possible that Robin had become a thief. But when her first words to him were “I didn’t do it,” and he could look into those uncomplicated, amber-colored eyes, he believed her without reservation.
He checked his image in the rear view mirror and slicked back one errant curl. His hair was beginning to thin, and that bothered him less than he thought it should. Yes; he was calm, he was cool—and the urge to kill someone was much lighter than it had been earlier.
Eric Parese was a fashion mod
el. It wasn’t difficult to look at him and be instantly distracted. But he was the one whose anger had exploded into the wreck that was Robin, and all Chris saw was a suspicious, hostile boy, angry at something and feeling threatened at the same time. His lover Jimmy seemed more casual about it all. As usual, Chris was the shortest man present. The Hispanic slave was introduced as Raul, and Chris nodded brusquely.
“Get me some coffee,” he said. “Do you have someplace private where we can talk?” he asked the owners.
Raul shot a glance at his two masters and headed for the kitchen. Jimmy forced a civil smile and pointed down a hallway, to his office. Eric was surly, but he came along, and the three men sat in silence until Raul served the coffee and beat a hasty retreat.
“I’m ready to hear the story,” Chris said.
“It’s very simple,” Eric said immediately. “We had a guest here, a friend of ours, Eve Panski. Tom, her husband, had given her a pair of earrings, emerald earrings—and while she was here, they went missing. We searched the house for days—and then, in the office your slavegirl uses, we found them in a bud vase. A little extra bonus for when she left, I guess.”
“That’s absurd. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase circumstantial evidence?”
Jimmy broke in. “We know that our boys aren’t thieves. Besides, they don’t wear earrings.” He grinned, and then lost it when he realized that neither his lover nor the stranger from New York were amused.
“Robin is no thief, gentlemen. She did not take the earrings, and she did not hide them in her office.”
“How can you prove that?” Eric asked. “All we know is that she’s the newest slave here, and the one with the shortest contract. The earrings were found in her room, cleverly hidden. What are we supposed to think?”
“Apparently, you’ve thought precisely what you were supposed to think. It hasn’t occurred to you that the damn earrings were planted there for exactly this purpose?” Keep the control, keep the voice steady, Chris reminded himself.
“By who?” Eric demanded.
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
“Oh? And who the fuck are you, Miss Marple?”
“I don’t think you should care if I’m Lord Peter Wimsey—if I don’t find out what happened, then I’ll have to file a formal complaint with the Marketplace concerning your treatment of slaves. There will be an investigation. All your slaves will be interviewed, and the doctor who took care of Robin’s infections and cuts today will have to make a statement. You will be interviewed as well. And all of this becomes part of the record of your house, gentlemen.” Chris rose. “If that is what you prefer, I’ll take my leave of you.”
“Are you threatening me, you greasy little punk?” Eric shot up too, and shook one fist. “I’ll make sure you never train another slave again! I’ll have you investigated! I’ll—”
“Yo, Eric, Eric—calm down, man!” Jimmy stood up, too, and the three of them faced each other, close enough to touch. Jimmy did grab hold of his partner and pulled him closer, holding one arm. “Listen, there’s no need for any of that. If he thinks one of the boys did it, let him question them. There’s no harm in that.”
“Our boys didn’t do anything!”
“And he’ll find that out. You’ll see, Mr. Parker. Carl has been with me for ages. Raul, he’s the best. And Jeff’s a good kid. It had to have been your girl. Look, it’s her first sale, you never know what you’re going to get with newbies.”
“As a matter of fact, the first slave of yours I’d like to speak to,” Chris said, “happens to be your other ‘newbie,’ Jeff. The good kid. If you could arrange for me to have a place away from general traffic, please?” He was so close to trembling—the tension was really getting to him. And the headache had never gone away. The aggression coming from Eric made him want to haul back and smash those beautiful teeth, hit that under-worked stomach until he felt the lower rib crack—
But it was time to put the kid away. He forced another tight smile as Jimmy pointed the way upstairs. A moment later, he was joined by Jeff.
Jeff was a handsome young man, dark-haired and -eyed, with a slender body and the slightly nervous twitch of someone used to being on the receiving end of a lot of casual abuse. Chris smiled genuinely for the first time. There would be nothing casual about what he was about to do. He indicated the staircase and started to shrug off his suit jacket.
“Jeff, I’m Chris. Get your sorry ass upstairs.”
He followed the youth, tossing the jacket over one shoulder and whistling.
When his left fist cut up and sank into Jeff’s middle, it felt almost like an orgasm. The right fist completed the feeling, and Chris paced back, allowing Jeff space to collapse and giving himself a moment to come off the balls of his feet and stretch out. It was beyond question unfair and cruel to use a sucker combination like that on someone called to attention.
It was satisfying as hell. Feelings crashed and mingled—the desire to kick the kid, the need for a cigarette, a fantasy image of doing the same thing to Eric, a touch of old pain at the thought of Robin, hanging by her wrists, having fucking garden stakes used on her—(because I told them she feared canes)—and here was the piece of excrement that caused it all.
Jeff coughed and gasped, and then gagged. He clutched his stomach and cried out, “Why’d you do that?”
Chris bent down and grasped the slave by his chain collar and dragged him to his feet. He stood taller than Chris by about five inches. “That should have been, ‘Sir, why did you do that, sir?’” Chris said softly. On the final ‘sir,’ he clipped Jeff on the upper chest, right under the collarbone, where it would hurt. And then stepped back again as Jeff raised his arms to protect himself.
“I still haven’t heard you say it,” Chris said.
“Sir!” Jeff croaked, his hands in front of him, slightly bent over. “Please—sir, why did you do that sir?”
“That’s better. Much improved. Now get down on your knees; we’re going to have a little chat.” There was a chair, but Chris remained standing. He had risen to the balls of his feet again, and the nervous energy would probably need to be worked off a little more before he could sit quietly. It was so hard to pull punches when he was like this.
“You’re one of Lu’s boys, aren’t you, Jeff?” he asked. “I looked up your file before I left New York. This is your first house; these are your first real masters. Are you happy here?”
“Yes, sir.” He looked incredulous at the gentle tone Chris was using. Still clutching his stomach, he knelt, spreading his legs as far as seemed comfortable—apparently this was a house position.
Chris was not impressed. But he kept his voice even. “Do you know who I am?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m Robin’s trainer. I’m here because Robin’s done a terrible thing. Apparently, she’s stolen something from one of your masters’ guests. I’m here to find out how and when she did it—and that’s assuming that she did steal the item. Do you know anything about this?”
Jeff lowered his eyes. “No, sir.”
Chris nodded solemnly. “I see. Get up, please.”
Jeff rose, and the minute he pulled his shoulders back, Chris landed a shot right against his upper right cheekbone, firmly snapping his fist into the underside of his eye, the force slamming Jeff’s head to one side and throwing him backward. Jeff brought his arms up to defend himself again, sheltering his head this time, skipping backward, a strangled cry of pain mingling with a bitten off curse.
“That was for telling me a lie. The next lie you tell will get you one just like it on the other side. Then I start with your chest and work my way down to your nuts. Kindly give yourself a moment to reflect on what something like that will feel like on your balls.”
Jeff kept retreating, almost tripping over the edge of a rug, stopping only when his back was up against a wall. He felt the spot under his eye and gasped in amazement and shock, and held his arms up again as Chris followed him.
; “You can’t do this!” he shouted, holding up one hand as if to warn Chris away. “You’re not allowed to d-damage me!”
“Yes,” Chris agreed. “That’s correct.” He walked calmly over to him and grasped the collar again and pushed Jeff’s head back against the wall, his left fist up under his chin. “Except for one thing.” He drew back his right fist and slammed it forward, and Jeff gave a strangled scream. But the fist impacted with a dull crunching sound on the wall next to his ear instead of hitting his face. The young man jerked with surprise and terror, and looked back at Chris’s face, at the gentle smile. “You didn’t say ‘sir,’” Chris said. “Try again.”
While the slave stammered out approximations of his line with “sirs” at the beginning and end of the statements, Chris looked at his hand. No surprise, he had abraded the skin over his knuckles. Someone was going to be pissed about that. He let Jeff go again, and walked back to the bed, where he’d thrown his jacket. He pulled a handkerchief out of the inside pocket and waved it at Jeff.
“Come and get this,” he said.
Jeff crouched by the wall for a second, and then took cautious steps over to the bed. He reached out and took the square of cotton.
“Now go and get this damp. Wring it out, I don’t want it to drip.”
Chris watched the boy go, and flexed his hand. Oh, he was going to make this last a good long time. He hoped that Jeff was going to be very stubborn.
About an hour later, he invited Jimmy into the room.
Jeff was sitting in a wooden chair, his arms wrapped around the back. They weren’t tied. Nor were his ankles, which were tucked behind the front legs of the chair. His body showed rising bruises on his chest and two gradually darkening black eyes. There was a cut over one eye, which had been covered by a Band-Aid. He had been sweating profusely—the scent of him was heavy and sour, like bile. His face was streaked with tears.
“If you wanted to torture him, we could have loaned you some toys,” Jimmy said, after looking at his property. “I didn’t know that you got your jollies this way, Mr. Parker. Weren’t you the one who threatened us with an investigation?”
The Trainer Page 23
