The Trainer

by Laura Antoniou

  Ron had been smiling as he turned, but as soon as he saw Michael, his eyes narrowed. Michael was about to extend his hand for a shake and an introduction, when he saw a blur of darkness cross in front of his face. Not again, he thought, ready to retreat. But the hand never hit him. He felt his cap take the impact, and heard it hit the floor a few paces away. Conversation dipped a little in their vicinity, and a few men raised questioning eyes over long necked bottles.

  Michael looked into the eyes of the man he had never met before and asked, hotly, “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “Bad enough you come out in unearned leather, boy,” Ron growled. “But you don’t wear a cover in front of your teacher!”

  Two men standing off to the side made “ooo” sounds and turned away with soft laughs. Most of the younger men ignored the scene entirely.

  Michael tensed, and started to prepare a retort, but stopped himself and took a deep breath. He glanced at Chris, who had leaned one hip against an old fifty-five gallon drum, and was eyeing him with interest. Michael looked back at Ron and nodded. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Uh—do you mind if I go get it?”

  “No, it’s okay. But don’t put it on in here until you earn it.” Ron turned back to Chris and Michael fought off the growing blush that crept up his collar as he chased after the hat. He bent down to pick it up, and someone said, “Better tuck those keys too, boy!” He looked around to see who had spoke, and a gray-bearded man in an ancient motorcycle jacket met his eyes. Michael picked up the cap and unhooked the keys from his belt loop. He shoved them in his pocket and rammed the hanky further down into the back pocket as well. He got a nod of approval and returned to Ron and Chris. He was shaking.

  What the fuck am I doing, he asked himself, trying to control the trembling. I am not a bottom! But he stopped at the correct distance away from the pair and waited for Chris to acknowledge him before he stepped closer. For a moment, he thought he was seeing things—what were those lines on Chris’s arms? He focused his gaze and realized that Chris had tattoos—damn, tattoos, on his forearms! They looked like swirls of some kind—snakes maybe, or vines. What do you know—under that corporate exterior, the guy had tats. He wished suddenly that he had decided to wear a T-shirt, too. It was goddamn hot in the bar—so hot that he was already dripping with sweat.

  “Now I’ll introduce you,” Chris said. “Michael, this is Ron. Ron, meet my student, Michael.”

  This time, Ron did stick out his hand. “Sorry to be so hard on you, kid,” he said, shaking Michael’s hand firmly. “Chris here’s told me you haven’t been brought up on formal manners. That’s part his fault, but then he hardly knew you were coming out here, did he?”

  Michael shook his head. “I didn’t even think of telling you where I was going—and I got dressed and left without seeing anyone.” He snuck a peek at the tattoos, and figured them to be flames. Nice work, too. He looked back up to avoid being distracted.

  Chris shrugged. “It was only a matter of time before I brought you here. But I would have instructed you on what to wear, first.”

  “I just came from a meeting. Um—Gay Men’s Leather Association.” Where they discussed flames. Michael wondered if it would be appropriate to bring that up.

  “Ah. Well, you’re here now. Were you planning to go home with the two who keep glancing over?”

  Michael looked over at Dave, and Ron looked with him and laughed. “Well, what do you know?” the older man asked. “They’re old buddies of mine. Trained them both. You remember, I told you about them.”

  Chris nodded. “Yes—you thought the bottom had potential.”

  “Still does. But they’re in love—why ruin a perfectly good relationship?”

  Michael looked at the two of them, and then at Chris. He didn’t dare to ask the question out loud. Chris laughed and nodded. “Yes, he’s in,” he said, punching Ron on the arm. “Or rather, he knows that we are.”

  “Hey, watch it, squirt, I’ll have to hurt you!” Ron threw a feint and Chris weaved and caught Ron’s fist. It looked playful, yet Michael still had a fading bruise on his upper arm. He winced and swallowed hard.

  “Anyway—” Ron said, backing off and leaving Chris alone, “those two are all right. Kinda twink, but not bad. Very eager. You could go home with worse. Or much better.” Ron took one long gaze over Michael’s body and nodded. “Yeah, I think you could do better.”

  Michael had never been so frankly appraised in his life. The earlier cruising at the meeting or even in the bar had all been sport, in fun. But Ron swept him up and down like he was a piece of meat—or a piece of merchandise, period. Like a client. He wished that he could just break away and go back to Dave and his slave boyfriend and have another beer and maybe go to their place and get his cock sucked. But it would be rude to initiate his exit. He had to be dismissed. He looked at Chris, and knew instantly that Chris wasn’t going to let him go. He felt disappointed, ashamed, confused—

  And he felt an erection.

  Oh shit, he thought. “Please,” he said. The word caught in his throat, and he had to cough to get it out and continue. “I need to take a piss.”

  Chris gave a brief nod and said, “Bring back two beers.” Michael shifted nervously, and Chris smiled as he tucked a bill into one of the pockets on his shirt.

  Michael didn’t remember where the bathroom was, but he just hugged the wall until he found it. Inside, he fumbled for his zipper and forced piss through the hard-on. Dry ice sizzled and shot white smoke up into the air. Next to him, a man with long blonde hair and a bushy mustache gave his own cock a shake and licked his lips. Michael looked at him—big, beefy, tattooed—nothing like what he usually liked.

  “Where?” he croaked.

  One of the two stalls had an “Out of Order” sign on it. Of course, the classic. It smelled of piss that men had poured into it anyway—the walls were dank and covered with graffiti. But Michael didn’t care. He stepped up onto the rim of the toilet and braced himself against the walls. The blond bear liked that. He grinned and pulled a condom out of his vest pocket, and hurriedly slid it over Michael’s dick. Then, he headed for Michael’s crotch like a dog for dinner.

  Michael almost cried out as the warm suction began. He threw his head back and gasped, and thrust his hips forward. The guy took his whole cock in, an enthusiastic—no, starving—cocksucker, just eating Michael alive from the crown on down.

  It didn’t take long. Michael’s body was tense with holding the precarious position over the toilet. The bushy guy had plenty of room to maneuver, so he used it, pulling his head all the way back and slurping his way all the way down to the base again. There were no fancy moves, only honest sucking and swallowing, and Michael felt the orgasm build like an approaching subway car, rumbling and tearing its way through his body. He shot into the rubber with such force he almost lost his balance, but the guy kept sucking until it was all out, and the cock had begun to shrink again.

  “Thanks, man,” the stranger said, backing out. “Anytime, for you.”

  Michael nodded weakly and stripped the condom off. He dropped it into the toilet and zipped up before he got down. Taking a deep breath, he exited and washed his hands. Realizing that his eighty dollar cap was missing, he ran back to the stall—it wasn’t there. But it was on the floor in the next stall, and the men in that one obligingly handed it out to him.

  It would all be very funny if it wasn’t so—intense. Michael wiped the hat off and went to the bar and ordered the two beers.

  “Someone’s been a bad boy,” Ron said when Michael came back. Michael stared at him in horror. “Yeah, you can’t hide anything from me in my bar,” the leatherman added. “I could see eyes following you all the way back here. Must have been quite a show.”

  Chris took his beer and sighed. “You keep going out for fast food, Michael. What do I have to do to get you into a four star establishment?”

  “Jeez, what does a guy have to do to get a little privacy?” Michael asked, b
lushing again.

  “Don’t suck cock in a leather bar!” Ron said.

  “Or get it sucked,” Chris added. “I don’t believe Mike has ever sucked cock.”

  “That can be remedied,” Ron leered.

  “I sucked cock,” Michael found himself saying. “Back at school. Before SM. I had a buddy, this jock named Charlie. Charlie Campbell.” He couldn’t stop talking, but the two men were listening to him. “He—he was on the soccer team. Nice body—but we were buddies. One night, we got drunk—and we were watching these videos—”

  “Great!” Ron shouted. “And you did him?“

  “Yeah.” Michael wished he had a drink, and suddenly, there was a cold bottle being pressed into his hand. He looked at Chris and thanked him with a look and took a long drink. “I sucked him off, and then he did me. And for the rest of our time there, we kept—doing that. We never really talked about it. Never really planned it. But the videos would come out, we’d have a few beers, and then I’d do him. And he’d do me.”

  “But always you first,” Ron said.

  Michael nodded.

  “And after a while, you really didn’t need a few beers,” Chris added.

  Michael handed the beer back and didn’t answer.

  “Fuckin’ classic, man,” Ron said with a laugh.

  “I think I should take Michael home,” Chris announced. “I think that’s enough fun for the night. Ron—it’s great to see you.”

  “You too, kid. Say hello to Brian if you ever talk to him. Good luck with the training, Michael. You’ll need it!” Ron raised his beer in a farewell, and then turned into the crowd and went stalking. Chris shifted his head in the direction of the door, and Michael followed wordlessly. They walked over to the main avenue to hail a cab.

  “I’m sorry if I ruined your date,” Michael said finally. “I know I shouldn’t have come over.”

  “No, technically you shouldn’t have, but it’s all right. And you certainly didn’t ruin a date, Michael. Ron’s not my lover.” Chris seemed amused at the possibility.

  “Oh.”

  “He’s my brother,” Chris said. “My big brother.”

  “That’s the truth,” came out before Michael knew what he was saying. He blushed and felt like he should duck, but amazingly, Chris threw back his head and laughed out loud.

  “Mike, let’s get you home before I have to spank you.”

  And if there was anything left for Michael to say, it vanished from his mind and he rode home in a pure and amazed stupor. He never did get to ask about the tattoos.

  He slept on his belly and moaned in the early morning hours. He awoke in the dark, pushing his ass up, his dick as hard as a rail, his hands clutching the pillow. He gasped and lay shaking under the covers until the sun rose.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The evening at the bar seemed to be a turning point. Oh, it wasn’t that Chris became a buddy and lightened up, or even that he was more forthcoming with those little personal details like having a brother nearby who was older and into this SM stuff. But it did seem that Michael felt more and more like a person when Chris talked to him and less like a vaguely stubborn object that needed a kick before it would work properly.

  It was also a turning point for how Michael saw Joan. The memory of standing on the side, waiting to be recognized, the sensation of sweat trickling down the back of his shirt, the humiliation of being spoken about to his face—all these things were the most simple and obvious parts of a slave’s existence, yet they filled him with such complex emotions! God, how could he have ever really known how it felt?

  There were times when he wanted to kick the walls and throw furniture around, partly because goddammit, they had been right, and he was wrong, and he hated being wrong—and partly because of the self pity that sometimes threatened to make him give up.

  Years, he thought, skimming through his old notes. I spent years learning the wrong way. And then, I waste months here, holding onto it. It was embarrassing. It was also frustrating.

  But every morning, he got up at dawn and ran with Chris, and then applied himself to everything he was told to do, whether it was doing the movement dances with Joan, listening in on the wrap-up interviews with Lorens, or folding laundry and discussing sports with Vicente. In evening sessions, he would ask Chris questions, and take even more notes, and then review them before going to sleep. Most of the time, he barely had energy to masturbate before sleeping—and the wet dreams took over for him when he didn’t. It was like being a teenager again.

  One morning, he was sitting in the dining room, lingering over breakfast. He heard Chris’s footsteps approaching—he had long since learned how to tell the difference between Chris and Anderson—and without thinking, he pushed back his chair and rose.

  Chris looked a little surprised. Michael’s mind seized up—he wanted to laugh it off, to say that he thought it was the Trainer approaching. But he couldn’t say anything. Chris nodded and began to inform him about what the agenda was for the day, and they went to work without mentioning it.

  * * * *

  “Did you have someone special when you left England?” Michael rolled over onto his stomach.

  “Do you mean a boyfriend? Oh, no, there was never enough time for that.” Joan giggled, and her body shook. They were together in the slave’s room. It was at the end of the hallway on the first floor, near the kitchen, and consisted of two single beds with two footlockers, with one shared closet. Michael had been sent there, to sleep, in order to experience the Spartan quality of the experience. But being with Joan made it seem more like summer camp. He did away with her need to be on formal terms with him, and found that to be far more interesting than sleeping in a single bed, which seemed narrow and kind of juvenile.

  “Not enough time? Why not? You weren’t a slave then.”

  “No, but there was always quite a bit of work to be done—the family was always occupied. If it wasn’t school, it was music lessons, or helping at my aunt’s candy shop—and I did a bit of rugby too, when I was younger. Also, I had decided quite early that I wanted very much to do the service.”

  “Wait—the aunt in the candy shop—that’s Edith?”

  She was pleased that he remembered. “Yes, that’s right. And when I go home, her husband, Henry, will retire from service and run the shop with her, after they take a tour of the world. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? A tour of the world!”

  “You’ve already had one. Japan, America... I haven’t been anywhere.” Michael pulled at the ever-stray lock of hair in front of his eyes.

  “Well, with all honesty, I would have rather not gone to Japan. It’s a lovely country with some perfectly lovely people—but it always seemed too crowded. And it was very hard at first—I couldn’t bear the food, and the tea wasn’t exactly what we were used to at home.” She smiled nervously and sighed. “I did get used to it, though.”

  “What made you get used to it, Joan? Was it that you knew you might not be acceptable for service without it? Did it make you unhappy?” He sat up and folded his legs under him. “I don’t know if I could do that—go to a foreign country and live with strangers and learn a whole new way of life, just so I could possibly be useful sometime in the next ten years.”

  “I’m very sure that His Lordship knows I’ll be useful, or else he wouldn’t have sent me,” Joan said confidently. “And better someone in the family get the experience overseas than some hired stranger, right?”

  “But you didn’t like it,” Michael insisted.

  “Well, no,” she admitted. “But I knew it would only be for a year. And if I had failed—oh, that would have been a shame. Mum and Dad would be very disappointed, I think.”

  “So—you’re doing it for them?”

  “No, not exactly. Not any more in the sense that a boy follows his father into the same university or the same branch of the services. It was something they did—I saw them, and it made them happy. They were so proud—and the service made them...” She paused, tur
ning over words in her head, and then shrugged. “I don’t know. Special in some way. Apart from the rest of the world. Now, I get to be special, too.”

  “And in ten years? Or eleven, maybe?”

  “I’ll come out of the service, and His Lordship will give me enough money to purchase the inn I’ve had my eye on since I was a little girl,” she sighed. “I always wanted to run a small country inn, to have visitors from all over the world, and be the mistress of my own house. With my experience in service, I’ll have the finest inn for miles around. My sister is a cook—when she leaves the service, she’ll come and work with me.”

  “Sounds nice,” Michael commented.

  “I wouldn’t have the chance if I didn’t do the service,” Joan said. “You see? In just ten years, I can have everything I’ve always dreamed of. Where else can you have such a thing?”

  “Nowhere,” he admitted.

  That night, Michael had the energy but not the inclination. He lay awake, listening to the rhythmic breathing coming from Joan and the gentle, rumbling snores from Lorens, who had camped out on the floor. It seemed so impossible that people lived this way, ready to be sent away, traded, used, and dismissed. Yet here were two slaves who had found stability in their service—one who was in love, and the other who knew that for the next ten years, her life was going to be secure.

  And Tara, gone back to her master, who would use her and enjoy her near-perfection, and then lose her when the contract ran out. Michael wondered if she had decided to leave the service because she could not be guaranteed a woman owner. What was it like, thinking of spending the next four years of your life knowing that any pleasure you got had to come from serving someone, or from jerking off? That your primary lover could never know that you didn’t think they were hot? He also wondered if she would ever tell her future lovers about the years she spent in a collar.

  What did you do for those years? someone would ask.

  “I was a slave,” Michael whispered out loud.

  * * * *

  “It’s here,” Anderson announced over breakfast. “Lorens’s Prince Albert. We’ll put it in tonight.”