The Trainer

by Laura Antoniou

“Already?”

  “It’s been long enough, Mike, and I think she’s covered the ground her owner specified. She’s conversant about American culture, well trained for the household tasks she’ll be expected to perform, and her Japanese has improved. I’d like you to write a report on her, describing her improvements in every area you can identify, please.”

  “You got it, Trainer.”

  “We’ll finish her off in two weeks then.” Anderson shook back her hair, which was caught in one long pony tail that day.

  “Trainer—is there a new client coming?” Michael asked.

  Anderson shook her head. “I haven’t picked one yet. I may take a few weeks off. Let’s play it by ear for a while.”

  “Sure thing.” Michael tried not to wonder what would happen to him if Anderson took a little vacation. He was out of money. He called his parents and got them to “loan” him a few hundred dollars, and he still had a voucher good for one-way airfare back to California. But there wasn’t enough time to complete his training before Joan left. Hell, it seemed like he had barely started! And the thought of staying in the house alone—or with only Chris for company...

  Better to not think about it. He focused on helping Anderson and Chris finalize Joan’s training. He sat in on interviews and worked into the night composing questions and making comparisons of Joan’s progress reports. It was amazing to note how much she had improved, especially considering how impressed he had been with her that first night. In these months, she had become an Anderson slave. And kept up her Japanese lessons, too. It was kind of weird, because he had actually had sex with Tara, and should have felt close to her—but Michael knew that he would miss Joan a lot, and think of her often. He liked to think that eleven years from now, he could go to a little village somewhere in England and find her running an inn, with a husband and a huge family of people with a secret that they passed on from generation to generation. He imagined her plumper than ever, wearing an apron, and directing a maid who might never know exactly how her employer learned all these skills.

  He had no idea where he expected to be in eleven years.

  It was hard to keep control sometimes, especially when he stopped thinking about the secret desires and concentrated on his work. What would happen was a slip—a shifting of focus that left him unprepared for sudden rushes of emotion or hunger. It was like keeping a lid on a boiling pot. Every once in a while, the rolling of the water seemed calm enough to stop watching. That was when the steam started to escape.

  It happened when he was watching Chris bent over the bookkeeping with Vicente. The two of them were consumed by their task, and didn’t notice Michael watching them from the front room, through the open office door. In fact, Michael didn’t realize that he was watching them until he felt a trickle of awareness—how the folded sleeves of Chris’s shirt accentuated his powerful forearm, and how the slender colored flames caressed the musculature...

  He managed to get upstairs without attracting attention, and stayed there until he was back in control.

  Sometimes, it came on him naturally, and he felt it coming. He knew, for example, that watching Chris do a final drill with Joan, covering the advanced positions they had worked so hard on, would be distracting. He hadn’t counted on the intense urge to do them with her, though, especially the sudden desire to drop to his knees in the profound posture which most often led to kissing a boot, or the floor between an owner’s legs.

  It seemed a much warmer year than usual.

  Late one evening, Michael was working in the office. His writing improved when he wasn’t near his comfortable and inviting bed. And the later it was, the quieter it was, with few or no interruptions. He jumped a little when he heard a knock on the door and it swung open. It was Chris. His tie was askew, the top button of his shirt open. It was as disheveled as he got. “You should get some sleep,” he said. “Early day tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “But I want to finish up this report before Joan leaves. I don’t sleep much anyway. What are you doing up so late?”

  “Same thing. Writing.” He leaned against the door jamb.

  “I was meaning to ask you about that,” Michael said, seizing the opening. “Do you make out reports too? Or are you working on something else?”

  “Both. Primarily, I’m preparing my first major presentation to the Academy.”

  “No kidding! That’s great!” Michael leaned back. “Are you going to present it in person?”

  “Probably,” Chris shrugged. “I’ve never been to Okinawa, and I’d like to see the house where Joan trained.”

  “I never realized that so much of my time was going to be spent writing,” Michael noted. “I hated taking notes in college. Writing papers was always a pain. If I’d known what I was going to be doing in a few years, I would have been an English major.”

  “It would have been better if you majored in psychology,” Chris said. “They make you write quite a bit for that one.”

  “Geoff was a psych major. Was that yours, too?”

  Chris nodded. “Part of my presentation is my re-worked Master’s thesis.”

  “Masters? Wow, that’s cool. Your parents must have been proud, huh?”

  He smiled tightly. “I suppose so. They had their hopes on Ron at first, but his coming out of the closet was quite a set-back for them to handle.”

  Michael shook his head. “That’s a shame. He seems like a nice guy. How did they take it when you came out?”

  The smile broadened a little. “Oh, not much better. A great deal worse, in a way. I was a great disappointment to them.”

  “Jeez.” Michael swallowed and looked away. This was so personal—so unexpected! He looked back at Chris, who didn’t look at all upset, and shrugged. “It’s too bad when people are like that. But I guess two gay brothers can be a bit of a shock.”

  “Yes, gay brothers—you could say the concept was very shocking. They’ve slowly started to come around. I recommended a good therapist for them.” There was something far more humorous going on under Chris’s voice.

  Michael sensed that something he said was unintentionally funny. He smiled slightly. “Chris?” he said cautiously. “Can I ask you a personal question?“

  “I never guarantee an answer, but you may ask.“

  “What are those marks on your upper arm?“

  “Brands. One for every year in true service.” He touched them idly.

  “Wow! They look like sergeant stripes, you know.“

  “Yes, I intended them to come out that way.“

  “You did? Not your... owner?“

  “I had them done after the service was completed,” he explained. “Just a personal reminder. I think it’s time you went to bed, Michael. I’ll give you a few hours off tomorrow afternoon if you need to finish your report. Come upstairs, I’m locking up.”

  Michael immediately closed his book and tucked it under his arm. He was halfway up the stairs before he realized that not only had he obeyed immediately, but he had inclined his head as Chris had left the room.

  Standing before his mirror, he traced three stripes on his upper arm, and tried to imagine the sizzle of flesh burning, the sight of Chris’s face contorted in pain, his head thrown back, sweat dripping over his eyes. He threw his own head back and gritted his teeth.

  And came, so quickly and terribly that he fell to his knees. He hadn’t even touched himself. Oh God, he thought, hugging himself on the floor and rocking back and forth. Oh God, help me hang on.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  He tried to hold it back, but couldn’t. When the car pulled up and Joan picked up her coat and bag, he felt tears in his eyes.

  “You be good,” he said, hugging her. “I’ll come visit you at that inn.”

  “God’s blessing on you, Michael,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “You’ll be a wonderful trainer. Thank you so much, Chris. And a million thanks to you, Trainer.”

  Anderson bent down to kiss her as well, and strok
ed her hair back. “You’ll do me proud, girl. My best to your family.”

  She walked down to the car, and Michael missed her keenly. He turned back to Anderson, and asked, for the first time, “What about me?”

  “I’m not finished with you yet,” she said casually. “I’m going to decide what to do next. Consider the next few days a little time off, for good behavior. And Mike,” she said, meeting his eyes, “you have been a good boy. I’m very pleased with how you’re coming along.”

  The relief he felt was embarrassingly obvious. “Thanks, Trainer.” He watched her happily as she walked down the hall and through the front room.

  “And I’m not finished with you either, boy,” Chris said from right behind his shoulder. Michael jumped—it was one of those off-guard moments.

  He turned and smiled and managed to ask, “What does that mean?”

  “You know what it means,” Chris said. “I’ll see you later.”

  It was a long day with that “later” hanging. About one hundred times, Michael decided to walk up to Chris and ask just what he had meant. He even practiced it in his mind. “Chris,” he’d say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you meant. Please explain it to me?”

  But he didn’t. I’m not afraid of the answer, he thought. It’s just that it might have something to do with my training, and I don’t want to push it. It’s just one of those “catch you off guard” things.

  After a quiet dinner, Anderson broke open a box of cards and started shuffling. “Anyone care for a few rounds of bridge, poker, or gin rummy?” she asked. Vicente plopped himself down in a chair in a way he never did when the slaves were around, and Chris grinned as he pulled up to the table. It seemed that “later” was not going to be after dinner. Michael excused himself.

  He was never very good at card games, and didn’t want to spoil what was obviously a tradition by playing bad hands. Instead, he went upstairs and did stretching exercises in his bedroom. He thought of going out, but knew that he wouldn’t.

  “Later” might still be that night.

  It wasn’t.

  The following day, Anderson took one of her rare journeys outside of the house, heading off to some local mall to do some clothes shopping. Chris went with her, and they returned with boxes and bags enough to fill the dining room table. Michael was surprised and a little embarrassed when Anderson gave him a box as a gift. It contained two really classy dress shirts and two silk ties.

  “I’m gettin’ mighty tired of the ones you have, bucko. This is to give my eyes a rest.”

  He accepted them with as much grace as he could muster and tried them on in his room. They looked wonderful on him. As he knotted one of the ties, he felt a strange thought curl up inside him—that it wasn’t Anderson who chose this particular shirt, the one with the delicate pinstripes that exactly matched the light blue centers of his eyes.

  He wore it to dinner. And avoided meeting Chris’s eyes for the entire meal.

  Again, when the dishes were cleared the cards came out. “I really am a creature of habit,” Anderson said with a chuckle. “Besides, I have to win back some of my hard earned cash from these two hustlers. Care to join us for a hand or three, Mike?”

  “I’m not much of a card player,” he said, excusing himself again. “I’d only lose my new shirt.”

  Chris sat down to play. Michael went back upstairs.

  Michael jumped when his door opened. He was standing in front of his mirror again, his mind a blank, his guts tight with expectation. When he caught the scent of the leather, his blood raced.

  Chris was wearing the chaps, over jeans. He was still wearing a button-down shirt, a crisp white that contrasted with the darkness below his waist. He gave a quick jerk of his head, toward his own room, and walked back out.

  Oh God, Michael thought. This is it, and I don’t even know what “it” is! But he followed automatically, and when he walked into Chris’s bedroom, closed the door behind him. Chris came up to Michael and turned him around. His powerful arms pulled Michael down, until their lips met. Michael had never really kissed a man before—the sensation of Chris’s facial hair scraping against his lips was startling and threatening at the same time. He found himself relaxing into the kiss, and moved his body up a little, feeling the hard strength of Chris against him. He moaned into Chris’s mouth when he felt the hand that caressed the length of his cock, tracing it as it rose behind his fly.

  Chris pulled at Michael’s hair, but gently, and left stroking his dick in favor of opening his shirt to get at his nipples. Michael moaned again as Chris’s fingers brushed one, and then the other.

  “Is this what you want?” Chris murmured into Michael’s ear. His breath was hot, and Michael wanted to melt into him—God, it was good! Another gliding brush of a nipple, and then the buttons were all open and the shirt tails were being pulled up and out. “Is this what you like?” Chris asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Michael sighed. He grinned and reached out to start unbuttoning Chris’s shirt.

  Chris caught his hands in both of his, and held them so tightly that Michael felt himself wrenched downward. Quickly, Chris changed his grip, twisting Michael around, and throwing him down to the floor, making him land hard on his knees. Michael fell forward onto one arm, the other one twisted up his back so hard that he cried out in pain.

  “Too bad,” Chris said. “That’s not what you’re going to get.”

  Michael’s dick didn’t seem to care that his heart had taken a leap from erotic excitement to terror. Michael squirmed until it hurt more, and then hissed through clenched teeth, “What are you doing?“

  “Giving you what you came for,” Chris said. Michael felt a softness slither around the captive wrist. Then, he felt a sharp pain, and he fell forward again, this time hitting the floor. His other hand was easily captured and bent back, to be secured in a quick wrapping that bound his hands together.

  “Stop it!’ he cried, fighting and knowing that he couldn’t fight. “Please—”

  “‘Please’ belongs with the proper requests,” Chris said, flipping Michael over. He laid the new shirt open and pinched Michael’s nipple sharply. “‘Stop’ isn’t one of them. I’ll stop when you’ve had enough.”

  Michael bucked up, and regretted it instantly—it hurt his shoulders on the way up and his wrists when he fell back on them. “I—I don’t want this!” he sputtered.

  “No?” Chris opened the waistband of Michael’s trousers and pulled them open as well. Michael cursed and felt tears forming as Chris freed his erection, jerking it out and taking it in his fist. “This says something different.”

  “Stop!’ Michael begged. “I didn’t consent! I don’t want to—I don’t—”

  “You don’t want to what, Mike? Be used like a slave, or be a slave?” Chris dropped the cock and started methodically stripping Michael, leaving the shirt on. Michael kicked out twice, and Chris smacked him hard on the inner thigh, twice for every struggle. Michael bit his lip, amazed at how much that hurt.

  When Mike was bare from the waist down, Chris squatted down next to him again. “I notice you’re not screaming for help,” he said. “Despite the fact that both the Trainer and Vicente are downstairs and could probably hear you quite well.”

  “Fuck you!” Michael spat.

  Chris raised one eyebrow and looked amused. “Bad boy,” he said calmly. And with calm, deliberate movements, he drew back his arm and smacked Michael’s penis so hard it slapped against his belly. At the same time, he brought one hand down to muffle the scream that Michael barely knew he was sounding.

  “Come on, up with you,” Chris said after he pulled his hand away. Michael gulped in a lungful of air and rolled over when a neatly placed kick caught him in the thigh. From his belly, he was dragged up to his knees. His cock waved in its erect state—the smack had done nothing but hurt it and make it hungrier.

  Michael never hated his penis so much.

  “Don’t think that you’re the first,” Chris said, push
ing Michael across the floor on his knees. “She gets children like you all the time.”

  Michael felt himself pulled to a stop, and looked up as Chris walked around him. Chris sat on the bed, and reached over to pick up something. When he came back to meet Michael’s eyes, he was holding a pair of barrel-shaped adjustable nipple clamps, attached together by a chain. He twisted the barrel and opened the jaws, and then calmly compared the opening to the size of Michael’s nipples.

  “No,” Michael whispered.

  “But I’m only following your dictate, Mike. I understand that nipples should be sore, as much as possible.” Chris leveled a stare at Michael and his tone shifted to something a little less light-hearted. “If you pull away, I will hurt you.”

  Michael stayed still as the jaws closed around each nipple. They were tight, and he gasped as Chris adjusted them.

  “Now, back to the subject at hand.” Chris placed one boot over Michael’s cock and pressed. Michael dropped back, until his ass rested on his calves, and grimaced as the pressure became too much. Chris lightened up—a little.

  “Tell me why you came here,” Chris ordered.

  “To learn how to train,” Michael gasped out.

  The boot twisted, and Michael clamped his mouth shut, fighting against the scream that wanted to come out. “Try again.”

  “I swear, please!” Michael said, the pressure making him begin to shake. “I didn’t realize—I didn’t know!”

  “That’s better.” The boot went away, and Michael felt a tear trickle down his face. He bobbed slightly, and then brought himself backup onto his knees. “Tell me what you know now, Mike.”

  “I don’t really know... it’s all so confused in my mind! I never wanted to bottom—I don’t want to! But I keep having these dreams, and I keep thinking of things—oh, Jesus, my nuts!” The loss of the pressure had been followed by a tingling sensation, and then the rush of blood back to his groin. Michael groaned, and pulled his legs together.

  Chris kicked them back apart with his boot and grabbed hold of the chain from the nipple clamps. He tugged at it and pulled Michael up higher on to his knees. “I’ll pay more attention to your nuts in good time. Now, tell me about these thoughts and dreams. This is recent to you, huh? You never saw it before?”