It didn’t always happen like that. Far from it. And there were parts of Chris’s methods which were still maddening, especially his insistence on full formality when they were at “work.” There were times when it all seemed silly, exercises in role-playing for someone long used to acting. And there were times when he was alone with the mirror, mouthing words and making moves, and wondering how someone could behave like this all the time. What could he say to someone to inspire them to this level of service?
He asked Anderson over dinner.
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “I never had to inspire anyone—they all came to me. I always figured that some people just had it in them—not only the potential, but the need. Like a person who grows up always knowing they have to be a soldier. You don’t need a war to get them, just an army that takes recruits. And they may never want out—they’ll be in uniform until they are forced out, and then they’ll hang out with old soldiers until they die. No one goes out and gets those people—they just show up to the recruiting station with their kit bags and never look back. That’s what the best slaves do, too. They keep showing up, until someone takes them in.”
“But what if it’s not that obvious?” Mike asked. “What if it’s buried inside? Do you think someone can really not know it’s there? And if they don’t, do you?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Sure, it can be latent, waiting to be popped out. Chris sees it more often than me, I guess. He’s got a good record in spotting.”
“Really? You’ve been a spotter?” Mike’s eyes widened.
Chris nodded. “I’ve been everything,” he said.
“Then you can tell me!” Mike struggled to keep the insistent sound out of his voice. “I’ve been wondering since—since Karen—” He paused, swallowed, and continued. “When do you tell them? You see it in them, you draw them out, do the preliminary interviews, and play with them a little—but when do you let them know about the Marketplace?”
“You don’t have to let them know,” Chris said. “Most of them believed in it long before they met you. And if they didn’t believe it existed, they will the minute you tell them.”
Mike’s face fell. “Then I was really wrong about her.”
“She would have made a very nice girlfriend-slave,” Anderson said strongly. “Probably a lot of fun. You would have been the envy of all your friends in the Leather Forever world, and I’ve no doubt you’d pierce her nipples as a wedding gift.” She seemed to be making fun, but her voice was gentle. “You spotted the wrong level, that’s all. What interested me was that after you, she seems to have made a career out of complaining about the lack of real masters in that community. It will be intriguing to see if she comes to us later on.”
“You—you’ve followed up on her?” Michael exclaimed.
“I’m not as isolated as I look,” Anderson said. “And when it affects one of my students, I learn anything I can.”
Michael didn’t know what to say. He had never looked into what Karen was doing! Should he have? He looked up into Anderson’s eyes again and asked, “And do you think she really will come back to us one day? Actually get into the Marketplace?”
“No,” Anderson and Chris said at the same time. They both smiled, and Anderson coughed politely. “No, I think she’s also proven that she can’t be trusted. If she had made a stronger effort to find you before airing her complaints in public, perhaps. But no decent trainer would take her on, knowing that she tried to air our doings in public.”
“Perhaps an indecent one will,” Chris noted.
Michael, for once, kept his mouth shut.
The change in training style also meant a new dry period sexually. Lorens was declared off limits again, and Michael found himself dreaming of pumping his cock between those powerful thighs, grasping the man’s heavy dick and twisting it in order to hear the cries of pain and feel the tensing of the anal muscles. He also dreamed of Karen, her sweet mouth working in his crotch while her hands were tied behind her back and a vibrator buzzed away between her legs. The surprise came when he dreamed of being on the bottom.
He dreamed of that dominatrix from ages ago, whipping his back and running her long fingernails down his flanks. Only this time, they continued around to his balls, and the pinching tightness as they drew his nuts up and together made him moan out loud even as something sharp started to slide between his own asscheeks—
And then he woke up. Sweating under the blanket, his cock erect and his heart beating so hard he thought he was having an attack of some kind. He kicked the covers off and lay there naked, allowing the sweat to evaporate off his body as he stroked his cock, back and forth, pulling at the skin. It was hard to concentrate on his usual images, so he went back to the dream, to the woman in leather, the scratch of her nails, the probing of his ass, the cool rush of air against his exposed anus, and then the touch, the pressure...
He shot his orgasm up almost without thinking, and groaned. Warmth splattered his hand and belly, and then turned rapidly cool. He shivered and pulled the blanket on top of him again, not caring about the damp spots he was going to leave. He was more concerned with that dream, and the force of his pleasure. He fell asleep again, the scent of his semen surrounding him, and didn’t remember any more dreams when he woke up.
* * * *
“Chris, what’s a classic?” Michael asked.
“A classic what?”
They were taking a breather by the park Chris ran through every morning. Michael had a much longer stride and covered ground quicker, but he lacked the stamina that the smaller man had. He needed to rest more often.
“Anderson said that you should start me like a classic. What does that mean?”
“Ah.” Chris patted sweat off his forehead. “That’s old guard. Classic training, as in the way she was taught, the way I was. The way no one is taught any more.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because it’s too time-consuming. Too demanding. It lacks the all-important element of immediate gratification.” He stretched a little. “But don’t worry—you won’t be expected to undergo the whole training process.”
“Why not?”
“Because you wouldn’t accept it.”
Michael frowned. “How do you know that? I’ve been accepting so far, haven’t I?”
“Yes—but can you do it for seven years?” Chris turned and started up again, and Michael fell into stride beside him. There was no talking while running, so Michael didn’t get the answers to his burning questions until after breakfast.
“One year introductory training,” Chris ticked off his fingers, “two years in service, two years managing other slaves while remaining in service, one year in formal apprenticeship to a master trainer, and one year as a journeyman trainer.”
“Jesus Christ! Four years as a slave, just to be a trainer?”
“Five years, depending on the temperament of the master trainer. Anderson’s master trainer was that kind of a man—his apprenticeships varied very little from a slave contract.” Chris nodded admiringly. “Some trainers used to include a two-year experience of owning a slave as well. You can see why hardly anyone does it any more.”
“Is that what you did?”
“Yes, and no. I have never managed to do things properly. But I have done everything, in one way or another. Just—in the wrong order.” Chris looked a little uncomfortable admitting this, but he seemed direct and truthful, and Mike was more than a little bit flattered by it.
“When were you a slave?” he asked, pushing a little.
“After I was an owner,” Chris said with a grin. “Ages ago, eons. And don’t bother to ask where I was sold—the Marketplace does accept non-traditional service arrangements as part of their experience records, and I was in one.”
“Oh.” Damn, another dead end. No wonder he wasn’t in the computer. “How come she didn’t start me as a classic when I got here?”
“Because you didn’t show that you had any potential. No
t that you have much now, mind you. But re-starting you like a classic means that you have the opportunity to take a better look at what you’re doing. It gives you more time to figure out where to go—it gives her more time to measure your dedication.”
“I am dedicated!” Michael protested.
“You might be,” Chris admitted. “Let’s see how much. You’re far too relaxed in posture and attitude. Get up and present.”
Chris didn’t hit him—but every time Michael got into a vulnerable position and braced himself, he could imagine the sensation of each blow. He could feel Chris’s eyes sweeping his form. That day, as he carefully arranged his body and thrust out his ass in that humiliating posture designed to give an owner or trainer a proper target to chastise, he could swear that he felt a hand caress him. It sent shivers through his body, especially since he could see Chris clearly out of the corner of his eye, too far away to touch him.
* * * *
The weather was warm the night Michael decided to take advantage of his time off and finally go to the local men’s leather group. He had stayed away from the local ISMAO Chapter, mostly because of the scary idea that somehow Karen had spread the word about him through that organization. The Equivocal Coalition had provided an evening or two of mild amusement, but when he caught some attitude from the threatened male “doms,” he decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. New York did have a few SM clubs, like dance clubs, and he investigated them as well. But he found them universally uncomfortable, either too large or too small, hot and smoky or cold and noisy. He preferred to go dancing instead, wearing his leather jeans and making out in the darkened corners with boys or girls as the mood struck him.
But he missed the companionship of a room full of people who understood the lure of leathersex, the passion of power. Dealing with the new and complex realities at the Anderson house had not dampened his excitement at all—in fact, it seemed to have heightened it. The dreams and waking fantasies were symptoms, he had decided, of a need to go out and have some fun. This time, he would know when to stop. This time, he was in control. He had picked up a calendar of events at the local Gay Communal Association, and found a listing for the Gay Men’s Leather Association. They had weeknight seminars and discussion groups, plus an occasional play event at one of the public clubs. It seemed worth checking out. At the very least, he could get some information about where the best pick-up places were.
He dressed carefully, knowing how important image was in a group of men. The leather jeans and boots, of course. A chain wrapped around the left boot provided an eye-catcher and a possible collar for some temporary companion. Black shirt, leather vest with run pins, and a black hanky tucked into his left rear pocket. He hung his keys left also, after he worked the wide belt through the loops in the pants. He threw his cover into a bag along with some rope, a few condoms, and some lube. No sense wearing the thing on the subway. New Yorkers didn’t look twice at someone dressed in black. But the cap with the chrome brim was a bit much for Brooklyn. He’d put it on when he got downtown.
He had already told Anderson and Chris that he was off to the city that night. Anderson didn’t need him—she was doing a private session with Joan. Chris was upstairs doing something by himself while Lorens and Vic were laughing in the kitchen. The sense of freedom that swept him as he walked to the subway was overwhelming. Maybe I have been working a little too hard, he thought. Well, not too hard, but more intensely than I’m used to. That’s where all these bottoming dreams are coming in; I’m feeling like I’m being stepped on. I need a little vacation.
The evening at the men’s organization was pretty typical. There were about forty men there, some in full leather dress, most in jeans or work clothes. Michael was heavily cruised, and he returned the compliments, eyeing possible candidates left and right and swapping meaningful glances and firm handshakes accompanied by lingering gazes at crotch level. God, it was fun to play with the boys. Much easier than courting women, that was for sure.
The topic was something about playing with fire, and a demonstration involved swiping someone with alcohol, setting the alcohol on fire and manipulating flames on their skin. It was fun—Michael had done it a few times in the past. Very impressive, especially for people who didn’t realize that the speed in which the flames are moved and smothered prevented anything more than first degree burns, and then only after repeated dousings. Michael had never heard of any Marketplace owner doing that with their slaves. Maybe it was considered too esoteric. He decided to ask Anderson if she had. Maybe she would let him try it on Lorens. That would be a sight.
After the demonstration and the obligatory question and answer period, Michael stayed a while and flirted and introduced himself as a visitor from California. He could sense a little attitude coming from the older men; he wrote it off as jealousy. He knew he looked sharp and the admiring glances of the other men confirmed his knowledge. He also knew that older tops tended to resent the younger ones. It was that old guard stuff again. And he also knew that strangers were always threatening—you never knew where they came from, how they played, whether they were going to take you home and commit atrocities on your corpse, becoming the headline in the next day’s tabloid. Or at least get you so drunk that you get tattooed with a bull’s head surrounded by a wreath of roses.
As the evening drew to a close, Michael shuffled through the come-ons and offers to find the genuine ones. He was left with two possibilities—going home with one guy about his age, who looked like he would be a good lay, or heading off to a bar with a couple who looked much more than merely interesting. He’d never been with two guys before. That might be fun. And Dave, the topman in the couple, seemed like a hot guy himself—maybe they could both do the bottom, whose name also happened to be Mike, and then kinda get into each other.
The bar they took him to was called The Shaft, and it was buried in the recesses of the meat-packing district, not far from one of the clubs Michael had investigated earlier. There was no cover charge, and the music was techno/dance, and beers were cold and served up by bare-chested men in leather shorts. The place was not quite as crowded as it would be on Saturday night, but it was a hell of a serious crowd for a weeknight. Michael bought the first round and hoped they wouldn’t stay too long. Not only was he going to run out of money soon, but he was seriously horny.
They showed him around, taking him on a quick tour of the bar, introducing him to a few of the regulars, and then settling at one back wall with their beers. Mike the bottom knelt next to Dave, and drank from Dave’s bottle. Michael enjoyed it, flirting with Dave while his slave was alone on the hard floor, seemingly ignored. It was part of the game—part of the fun. Michael imagined their interaction later in. Would he get to fuck Mike’s mouth, or ass, or both? Would the two tops take him at the same time, fucking both ends at once, forcing sounds of lust and pain from him?
“Hey, look over there—that’s the guy who brought us out,” Dave said suddenly. “That’s Ron.”
Michael turned to see a tall, well built man in jeans, chaps, a black T-shirt and vest. There was an understated simplicity about him—no chest harness, no chains, no gauntlets or whips—even his cover was plain, lacking the chrome brim that Michael’s sported. He looked to be in his forties or so, although it was kind of hard to tell. His hair was black—he looked every inch an old-time leatherman.
Their eyes followed him as he walked through the crowd and threw his arms around a shorter man standing by the pool table. Michael felt a little weak in the knees for a moment. It couldn’t be! But another look and a shift in position gave him a better view. The shorter man, the one with the cute butt framed by his own pair of chaps, was Chris Parker.
Dave was asking him a question. It was drowned out by the thumping of the music or the pounding of his heart.
“Are you all right?” Dave asked again.
“Uh—yeah. It’s just—I know Ron’s boyfriend!”
“Well, what do you know? I tell you, the community gets sm
aller every year. Why don’t you go over and say hello? I’ll send my boy to get us more drinks.”
“Uh—” Michael caught himself quickly. Should he have admitted to recognizing Chris? Damn, that wasn’t proper! But Dave caught his hesitation and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Listen—you go over if you want. The boy’s going for drinks. If you want to socialize, we can come over after you say hello. Okay?”
Michael blessed the man for his tact and thanked him verbally. And then he started to make his way through the crowd. His curiosity was too much to bear—what on earth was Chris doing with a soft world topman? And just look at how Chris was dressed! Michael took in the chaps and jeans, T-shirt and vest, and realized that Ron and Chris were dressed pretty much identically. He also realized that this was the first time he had ever seen Chris in short sleeves, let alone in leather. It was a strange mixture of emotions and thoughts brewing inside of him as he approached them. It was definitely amusing to have caught Chris slumming.
Chris caught sight of him as soon as he was in view and damn near did a double take. Then, he laughed, one hand crossing his abdomen, and said something to Ron, who glanced over his shoulder. It must be okay to approach then, Michael thought. He came forward and half waved. “Hey, boss,” he said.
“That is Michael,” Chris was saying.
The Trainer Page 29
