The Trainer

by Laura Antoniou

  “Maybe I will,” he said, stretching again. He rotated his shoulders as he leaned up on his elbows. Alicia’s partner in crime was Rudy, his muscled back clearer as he paused on all fours, one forearm held up in perfect mimicry of a cat padding over the bed. Cute. In reality, Rudy had little in common with cats; he was modest, athletic, and dedicated to doing hard work when it was demanded of him. But he knew how to tease and how to play-act, and now he waited, his wrist dangling loose, a question in his dark eyes.

  Waiting for permission to continue, of course. Now that they were caught, there was no chance to gently waken him with kisses and licks. Not that this was going to stop him from enjoying them! The sleeper shook the last vestiges of sleep from his brain and eased himself back against his warm pillows and closed his eyes. “Please me,” he sighed. “And don’t be too long about it, we got a ton of work to do today. If you get me off nice and fast and good, maybe I won’t punish you.“

  Rudy chuckled and ran a hot tongue from the ridge around the head of his cock way down to the root and then washed it over his balls. “Maybe you will anyway, master!“

  If he was inclined to answer, he was interrupted by Alicia leaning over him as she ran her hands over his chest and nipples, expertly teasing yet perfectly satisfying at the same time. He reached out without opening his eyes and found her round—and well-augmented—tits. Ahh, but they felt so nice and hefty in his hands! He’d never thought that one day he would be a connoisseur of silicone boobs, but having seen a few dozen cases of well-executed improvements on the female form, he’d become quite the fan. Hell, even some of the men were getting their chests built up, their butts lifted and curved more.

  Ahh, California. What didn’t already exist in Eden, we just make ourselves. He tugged on Alicia’s nipples and she moved immediately to straddle his body and offer her jugs to his mouth and teeth. A regular breakfast of champions. Her hair falling around his face was scented with jasmine and tangerine, sweet and heady.

  Rudy had slipped a condom over his hard-on with a nice, firm touch; one thing the boys didn’t have to be drilled in was how to handle cocks. Funny how girls seemed to think they were so damn fragile! But one thing Rudy had not mastered was the art of getting the rubber on using his mouth; those straight, white teeth shredded a pile of latex large enough to dress half the staff tonight. Pity about that; if he could have managed to get that little trick down, he’d be more than serving staff tonight.

  Maybe that was why, when he did work his mouth over the latex-covered cock, Rudy was completely voracious and focused. His lips curled close around the shaft as his tongue slathered spit all up and down, wetting it for serious throat-pumping action. Or, maybe he was just being obedient and doing his best to achieve a quick, hard orgasm. Either way, his efficient start elicited a groan out of a mouth filled with tit, and that was impressive.

  Alicia groaned as the hands on her chest tightened and then gave a lilting cry as she felt bites on one nipple and then the other.

  “Should have come in here with them clamped!“

  “Yes, master, yes, tomorrow I will!“

  “If you’re still here tomorrow, cunt. Suck my nipples. Make like your boyfriend there and suck me off.“

  She scooted back and dipped her head against his chest and sucked one then the other nipple into her mouth to wet them. Then, as she suckled on one side, her fingers teased and fluttered on the other, switching back and forth as the moisture evaporated from his skin. Warmed, flavored lube would have worked better. He’d also had maple syrup, honey, whipped cream and other comestibles sucked and licked from his body, but he drew the line at doing that in bed. Even if he wasn’t the one who had to wash the sheets, it felt wrong.

  Now, to just lie back and let those two talented mouths work on him, that was paradise! On another morning, he’d get more elaborate, insist on better preparation, actively correct the minor errors and demand perfection. But today of all days, it was his last chance to just enjoy the pleasure by himself. Without putting in a show for the morons.

  In a perverse jerk of the mind, the sensations on his nipples and cock combined with the selfish luxury and mean-spiritedness of his feelings toward the honored guests combined to jet him into pre-orgasm. He grabbed Alicia’s hair and jerked her violently toward him, capturing her tits against his face again, fastening his mouth over one engorged and tender nipple. As he bit down, his hips jerked up, and he hooked one leg over Rudy’s back, keeping him in place as well. Get me off, take it, take my load, he thought in savage glee. God, yes, this was the life!

  Pity about the party.

  * * * *

  Later on, Michael revisited that thought. No, it wasn’t a pity about the party; parties were great. What wasn’t there to like about a house filled with naked perverts getting it on in any number of combinations, most of whom were available to him either by command or a come-hither look?

  “Whoo-hoo, mama, shake that thang!” hooted a tall, balding man with an expensive kangaroo-hide singletail he had no idea how to use hanging from his belt. He was cheering one of three girls who were doing a credible belly dance revue by the fire pit. They were dressed in thongs under sheer scarf skirts that flared and whirled as they danced, their breasts bare and lower faces veiled. They flirted and seduced with eyes painted with enigmatic layers of kohl, and coins dangled and jangled from bracelets and ankle rings and glittered in their hair. It was artful, erotic and pretty well done, as far as Michael knew. Geoff had brought in a specialty instructor for them, a dark-skinned woman with great patience and vast amusement when she saw the costume designs.

  And all that work came down to “shake that thang,” spoken by a man who probably locked his Lexus doors when driving through a neighborhood of brown-skinned people.

  Actually, Michael reflected, it wasn’t a Lexus. Douglas drove a red Porsche convertible; no doubt he never took it anywhere scary. And like his exquisite imported whip, the car was nothing but a signifier.

  It says I’m a rich moron, Michael thought as he walked away from the fire pit area, feeling unexpectedly angry.

  Around him, slaves weaved and dipped as they carried trays of canapés and cocktails, macro-organic snacks, and whipped fruit and vegetable drinks for the health-food fanatics. Why anyone would ruin perfectly good pizza with caviar was puzzling enough; why anyone would voluntarily drink anything made with carrots and wheatgrass was just a complete mystery. Michael grabbed an ice-cold flute of champagne and drank it too quickly; the chill was barely gone from his throat as he felt the alcohol raise his facial temperature. He ducked into the shade to continue cooling off, wishing he could understand why this party just offended him so damn much!

  He looked around from his place beneath the black oak tree, at the vista of pleasure surrounding him. Geoff Negel’s beautiful cliff-side home was open on all sides, guests, residents and slaves wandering through the home and gardens and decks and the pool area at will. The Mediterranean stylings of the house did not disguise its enormous footprint—there were ten bedrooms tucked away in that three level golden palace, not even mentioning the apartment in the pool house or the one over the four bay garage, plus the slave dormitory that had started life as a private chapel. Plenty of room for the naked slaves to romp outside, too—almost a quarter mile to the front gate, flanked by olive trees and a winding pond where koi darted in and out of the sunlight.

  It was a gorgeous, late-summer day, steaming hot in the sun and breezy in the exposed areas. Only a few sealed rooms inside were air conditioned, including the auction room. The fire pit and exterior lounge was set aside for special performances and vignettes, extra large pillows and padded lounges arranged for seating and cuddling. A sushi chef made custom hand rolls every hour on the hour, served from the gourmet kitchen; over by the barbeque a Mexican woman turned out Oaxacan spiced lamb and goat and roasted vegetables, redolent with cumin, chili peppers, and the dense chocolates of rich mole sauces. And all of this before the formal dinner after the auction! Go
d forbid anyone should starve before they sat down to celebrate their purchases or drown their sorrows.

  Maybe that was part of the annoyance, too. It wasn’t a real auction, although Geoff hosted plenty of those. This was a play auction—real money, but micro-contracts, some as short as a weekend, the longest a single month. The owners bidding tonight were newbies. Virgins. And Geoff was teaching them how to play with the big boys and girls.

  And again, there was nothing wrong with that! Michael had been to nice auctions and he’d met plenty of new would-be owners. It took more than a hefty bank account to be an owner in the Marketplace, although that certainly was a good place to start. But many of them hadn’t even come up through the kinky/SM/leather scene, such as it was. After all, these were people with serious money. Hanging around community centers and bars with working class people in their fetish finery just wasn’t done when your friends were hanging out on their private islands and, well, their cliff-side mansions and villas.

  And yet, here he was, completely working class and at the mansion, too. It was laughable sometimes how fucking lucky he was! But he sure wasn’t going to run into most of these wannabe owners over at the International SM Activist Organization, that was for sure. Except for Douglas, who probably didn’t take the good car when he went slumming for submissive girls. His problem though—the very problem Geoff would help him with tonight—was that although he could afford a stable of the best slave sluts Geoff could offer, his skills in navigating the real world of slave owning were, frankly, pathetic.

  The funny thing was, just having money didn’t seem to prepare most people for the rigors of mastery. Douglas had been no better at managing his soft world subbies than he had when dating the standard actress/model types who showed up on any man’s arm when he had money and was willing to spend it. He was coarse, petty, and jealous, with a suspicious mind; his third divorce was as ugly and contentious as the first. Geoff somberly talked about self-esteem issues—Douglas must have known he wasn’t any sort of Prince Charming and probably frequently wondered if the only thing he had going for him was that array of colorful credit cards and the power they gave him.

  But under Geoff’s patient tutelage, Doug had actually improved a bit. For one, he didn’t play grab-ass with every girl who sashayed by. He now knew to look for collars and how to respect them. His play style shifted from porn-fed and fantasy-based to a more realistic pattern including more consistent use of organization and management. He actually had to learn that slaves wouldn’t do things on their own initiative, and got bored when he didn’t take control! He was also just awful at the use of real discipline; he loved to punish his girls for tiny errors when he felt like it, and then wanted to ignore them the rest of the time, not caring about the exact same things. Geoff spent so much time working on that particular owner behavior, sometimes it seemed like its own little epidemic. But after time, most owners grasped the reason why they needed to be hands-on managers who noticed their property outside the bedroom or dungeon, and Douglas had improved a lot. And while he would still talk about prices of things with his peers, he had stopped asking the estimated or actual price of every slave he met.

  He’d also stopped referring to his fellow owners of the gay persuasion as rug-munchers and cocksuckers.

  Michael shook his head as he watched the would-be owner fondle one of the slave trainees available for public mauling. Really? He thought. This is who we want to own our hard work?

  He heard Geoff’s deep voice and looked eastward, toward one of the garden paths lined with eucalyptus and pine trees. The master of the training house was taking some new faces on a tour of the grounds, a champagne flute in one hand as he gestured toward the plantings and the art pieces. Michael couldn’t help but feel Geoff just... outclassed his own owners! The man was suave, confident, brilliant, and sensitive—and on top of all that, just stunningly handsome.

  Hell, I’d do him in a minute, Michael reflected with a wry grin, feeling somewhat morally superior to poor Douglas. Okay, so I am not gay or anything and no, I wouldn’t want to be a slave for him or shit like that. But I sure have no problem working the boy slaves, that’s for sure. Hell, twice as many potential mouths and asses works out good for me! But if I was to go queer, it would be for a guy like him. Masculine, but not macho.

  He sighed and headed back toward the house. The champagne had gone straight to his head and he needed to hydrate fast. In fact, a quick dip in the pool wouldn’t hurt, either. Yes... water inside and out would cool him off and get him ready for the next stage of entertainment and training.

  * * * *

  Crystal joined Michael and the two other trainers and trainers-in-training who were tasked with prepping the eight slaves for their auction. Michael liked his fellow trainers just fine most of the time; certainly he liked Crystal, who was one of the most oversexed women he’d ever met. She was a sweet-natured woman who was always switching from one diet to another in an effort to lose the same bouncing ten or fifteen pounds. The latest version included drinking cans of some special diet drink she’d seen on a TV talk show. Personally, Michael thought the extra weight wasn’t that bad on her; sure, she was just a little more hefty in the stomach and hips than most people liked. More important to him though was that she was a bad role model for the slaves who were on strict diets. Constantly changing what and how she ate looked bad.

  “Oh my God, I am so nervous!” cried Tatty, whose real name was Tatiana. Tatty was a classic Negel pleasure slave type—tall and willowy, with luminous, honey-brown eyes and flowing, amber hair. She and Alicia were the standouts in the auction; Alicia was blonder and had bigger tits, but Tatty had these stunning high Russian cheekbones and a sculpted, straight nose. Put them across the room and they’d look vaguely related, but put them together and you’d have men fighting over which one was more perfect. They would be displayed right next to each other, back to back.

  Crystal grinned as she pinned back some of Tatty’s hair, letting most of it flow free in erotic disarray. “You should be!” she teased, as she worked. “A whole month with an owner, and none of us around to make sure you behave!“

  “You’d better behave,” growled Larry, one of the trainers. “If I hear you screwed up, you will have pure hell when you come back here, I promise you. Any of you! Don’t think that just because we aren’t riding your asses that you can fuck off and make us look bad.“

  Michael turned away so Larry wouldn’t see him rolling his eyes. Larry was always threatening hell and fire for disobedience, but when it came down to actually punishing the slaves, he was downright pussified. Michael liked delivering an open-hand spanking as much as anyone else, but after a while, it hurt. As in your hand. Larry would spank and then stop when he got bored or his hand hurt and then he’d send the slave on their way. They loved to be punished by him; even Geoff knew that.

  Michael went from one posing platform to another, consulting the auction plan they’d been given. Each slave had a different set of positions they could assume, and each was instructed how to uncurl gracefully from one into another when they got stiff or after an owner had repositioned them for examination. They wore no clothing, of course, but they were decorated with thin, colored ropes wound around biceps or draped across chests, circling their throats, wrists or ankles. Again, each design was unique to that slave. They were not tight, merely decorative. A few had beads, bells, or little dangling charms to catch the light.

  Five girls and three boys. Rudy was somewhere at the party circulating with a tray or making himself useful. Maybe, if an orgy developed, he might be pulled out for some minor play. The slaves who were currently in training but not ready for even a mock auction were all bitterly disappointed, angry, or despondent. Even if they were released from serving the guests, none of them would be fucked or even used as a fluffer; part of their training or punishment for not being worthy. The newer ones would learn what standards they’d have to live up to, the more experienced trainees would go to bed frustrated and
horny.

  Now, that was punishment!

  “I wish I was being sold for a month,” whispered Salim. He was the most exotic slave being presented, with olive skin and almond-shaped dark eyes. His black curly hair was long, giving him a great Arabian prince-in-bondage kind of look. When he’d arrived for training he insisted his name was Sam, but Geoff broke him of that pretty fast. Tatty was a cute nickname, but there were a million Sams in the world. “Salim is a wonderful name,” Geoff had said firmly. “It means secure, and don’t you want security?“

  Of course Salim said yes. It was hard to say no to Geoff.

  “Soon,” Michael promised, patting the man on the cheek. Salim was almost thirty, but had such a slender body he could pass for a teenager. Pity it isn’t for a month, Michael thought. He’s ready, I know he is. Why doesn’t Geoff clear him?

  Geoff’s standards for determining a slave was ready for a real auction were mysterious. There was nothing in the training manuals Michael studied from that looked like a handy checklist. And the one time he asked, Geoff had been less than forthcoming.

  “It’s not something you can just tell by looking,” Geoff had said. “For each client, you need to do a careful series of interviews and tests and each one will be different. There are no standardized tests in our world!“

  Yeah, but how do you know? Michael thought, massaging Salim’s shoulders a little, and then slapping the man on his back a little harder than a friendly and affectionate pat. Salim relaxed and laughed and kissed his hand.

  I just know he’s ready! Michael swore to himself. Maybe I will ask Geoff later. See if I get a better answer this time.

  “Places everyone,” said Crystal, who was now standing near the door. “Here come the owners!“