The Trainer (11 page)

It was all very exciting and cozy, but
nothing prepared Michael for walking through the massive front
entry into Rothmere and seeing, for the first time, a world in
which there were no people who were not Marketplace—and one in
which this was so natural, no one seemed to pay it any mind at
all.

They came in out of a pounding rain, and
were met by slaves in house livery who removed coats and hats and
umbrellas as though they were magicked away. Towels and dry socks
appeared swiftly and without fuss, and Michael’s own shoes were
lifted away for a minute and returned brushed off and dried before
he even finished running a comb through his hair. As suddenly as
they descended, they were gone again, and the American visitors
were left in the hands of an elegant man in a formal coat with
tails, who escorted them to Howard Ward, who was in the magnificent
drawing room with some of the other attendees, surrounded by
ancient family portraits and coats of arms.

And then Michael began to notice something
odd.

Whenever Geoff traveled in the US, he was
met with great pleasure and excitement—his coming anticipated and
his arrival a reason to be celebratory. But at Rothmere, Howard
Ward only rose and only shook Geoff’s hand briefly with an air of
polite distance. Michael could feel it immediately, even though
Geoff seemed to act as though nothing was wrong at all. Ward
doesn’t like him, Michael thought, watching how the man idly nodded
to what Geoff was saying, and how his eyes darted occasionally to
find someone else to move on to. Other people in the room watched
as Geoff introduced his little party, and Michael could feel slight
amusement, curiosity, and even a touch of confusion coming from the
people whose hands he shook, but not even a second of warmth in
their welcomes. Uh-oh.

It seemed to get worse, too, although
sometimes Michael doubted his sanity, because he seemed to be the
only one disturbed by these things. Brad was his typical,
glad-handing self, heartily greeting strangers as though they were
long-lost friends, slipping his card into their hands before they
even had a chance to say hello back. And Crystal was very impressed
by both the opulence of the Georgian manor house and the various
British accents she heard, falling in love and lust with one
speaker after another, grabbing Michael and sighing from time to
time as she pointed out the latest object of her attention.

But while his companions were getting along
in a fairly oblivious way, it didn’t take Michael too long to
realize that Geoff was the only trainer who had brought more than
one student with him. During that first evening, when they all
wandered from room to room, Michael never met an apprentice who
didn’t seem to be identified as “my pupil,” or “my junior,” or
once, “my best student.”

To be one of three—with two others still at
home!—seemed suddenly odd. And what was odder was that they were
the only Americans there, too! Almost everyone else was British—or,
as he was corrected more than once, they were English, or they were
Scots, or Welsh, or Irish. There were two Germans there, but they
were not of the training line; they were presenters. There was also
a married couple from South Africa.

But Geoff was the only American. At first,
it was easy to believe that it had been a singular honor.

Yet, even arriving back at their rented
cottage was another moment that shook Michael up and left him lying
awake in confusion. Because, when the four of them piled out of the
car and ran to the door through the rain, there was no light on.
Brad searched for the key while Geoff knocked, and the door was
finally opened by a sleepy-eyed slave, pleasantly naked, whose eyes
widened as she let the travelers in.

The other two slaves had to be awakened,
too. And they had to be told what to do—even basic things like get
robes from the bedrooms. Oh, they were very solicitous—one of the
girls even wound a leg around Mike’s own thigh as she dried his
hair, and whispered a sexy suggestion into his ear.

But all Michael really wanted was to get
into bed and sleep off the jet lag in peace and dry warmth. He was
grateful, as usual, that Geoff took control and sent the slaves
running to fetch things and get them all settled, but when it came
time to get into bed, the last thing Michael wanted was company. He
listened to Crystal whimpering and panting for a while as her
chosen slave went down on her, but stayed awake long after the
breathing calmed and the room was in complete silence. His only
consolation, as he finally drifted off to sleep, was that compared
to the slaves who had helped them so well at Rothmere—including the
ones who served drinks and passed canapés—the three here were much
better looking. Probably more fun in bed, too, since the Rothmere
slaves seemed so damn serious. But he hadn’t needed a pretty girl
in bed. He needed one at the door with a cup of tea and his warmed
bathrobe and a pair of slippers.

Obviously, Brad wasn’t keeping his slaves in
line the way he should, Michael had decided. It was a good thing
they would have this time with Geoff, to set things right.

The next day was even worse. They entered
into the more formal style of the weekend, with set roundtable
discussions and seminars. On that day, Michael found out just how
small a pond Geoff was the big fish in.

The Rothmere gathering wasn’t just a chance
to get these trainers of Ward’s line together to reminisce and
chat—it was a chance for Ward to report on what had been learned at
the larger, international gatherings, and for more experienced
trainers to present work they had written themselves, or the work
of colleagues. That morning, when the American contingent showed
up, they found a long table set up in the vast entry way,
containing bound collections from the annual meeting called the
Academy, as well as folders and binders of reports and papers done
by individual trainers of merit all over the world.

Geoff had brought his own collections, which
Crystal and Michael made room for and displayed with their printed
summary cards. But Geoff didn’t stop to pick up any literature—he
gathered his troupe and gave them their instructions and then set
them “free” to explore. As usual, he didn’t require anything
specific of them, only that they didn’t clump all into one
discussion together, so they could each share something new when
they got home later that night. And with a smile and a warm pat on
the back for each, he took only Brad to accompany him as he went to
the first meeting Howard Ward was running.

Michael waited until Crystal chose a topic
of interest to her, and then spent about an hour studying the table
and taking mental notes. He’d never heard of many of these
names—but he had heard of some of them.

The German, Walther Kurgan, for example.
Geoff didn’t like him, and there was no mystery there. Kurgan was a
military man, who looked for former military personnel as slaves.
His methods came right out of boot camp, or whatever boot camp was
called in Germany, and he produced top-notch bodyguards and
drivers, the types of slaves who would serve and protect your
family. Or, simply the well-disciplined type who could run your
house or business or your life with aplomb. Or even personal
trainers! One of the presenters at Rothmere was one of Kurgan’s
former trainees, now a trainer on his own.

There were many more—Arturo Massimiliano,
who trained slaves to be exquisite tops, becoming the dream
mistresses and masters for their demanding, masochist owners. Geoff
did that sort of training too, and was always reminding his
trainers that there was no shame in being a bottom, and that the
only shame was in being afraid to be who you were whenever you
wanted to be. And the trainers would hide their snickers and grin
with tolerant understanding, and Geoff would smile back at them
with the slightest of winks.

And more! Did the Frenchwoman Corinne really
only take slaves with a talent for six languages or more? Were
there that many slaves, and was there a need for them that was so
regular? Everywhere you turned, there was an expert in a particular
method or a type of slave—a couple whose work was primarily in
novices, a man who would not even think of considering a slave
without ten years in service. There were trainers who used their
own spotters, trainers who did their own spotting, and trainers who
only took slaves who were referred by owners.

Michael found himself overwhelmed by the
variety and the scope of topics. He looked for American houses and
was gratified to find a few, especially glad when he saw that some
of them were heavily sought after by other attendees. But Geoff’s
were ignored. Sometimes, they were idly picked up and examined, but
then put back down. One American trainer’s work got snatched up,
though.

Anderson. No first name. People whispered
the name to each other and passed the folder on to friends. Before
they were all gone, Michael slipped one of them into his briefcase
and examined the schedule for the next round of seminars, so he
could get a better feel for what was “out there.”

By the end of the day, what seemed like a
nice and kinky, mostly Californian way to handle matchmaking
between sex-hungry bottoms and wealthy tops just vanished. It was
much bigger, much older, and much more complicated than he could
have ever imagined. And his place in it—favored student of Geoff
Negel—was tinier than he had ever really wanted to know.

It was hard to even get into the swing of
things—he would introduce himself and his accent would give him
away. Someone nearby might whisper “Negel,” or even worse, he’d see
a spark in the eyes of the person he was speaking to suddenly fade,
and then he’d be brushed off with polite civility.

He did try to attend a seminar and see if he
could learn something new. But when Geoff or one of his trainers
taught, they used slides, movies and live slaves to demonstrate
things, the slaves always naked or in thongs or something, and they
used humor and charts to liven things up.

Instead of all that, Michael found himself
seated in the library with six other people, listening to an old
man gently discuss—of all things—servants. Not slaves, but
servants. Butlers, maids, and that sort of thing. It took a while
for Michael to realize that the man was talking about slaves, and
just using different language. He was explaining what it took to
staff a full-sized manor house, back in older days and now, and how
the hierarchy worked, and who reported to whom, and what their
duties were... and Michael almost fell asleep. It was so damn dull
he had to blink and shake his head over and over again to stay
alert. Yet around him, the men and women were either nodding or
taking notes. Notes? On what? Michael thought.

When the old guy finally got around to
talking about training, Michael perked up a bit. They didn’t do a
lot of domestic service training at Geoff’s, although all the
slaves were expected to know the basic housekeeping chores, like
making beds, loading dishwashers, laundry, that sort of thing. Why
train all-purpose household cleaners if most of the owners would
use their slaves for sex and light work anyway? But maybe domestic
service might be a good sideline to go into.

Well, if it had been, Michael couldn’t say
by the end of that long day. Because instead of handing out lists
and moving on to showing off some pretty girl in a French Maid’s
uniform and making her serve drinks or something, the guy just kept
talking! And some of what he said just didn’t make any sense at
all. Training done by other slaves?

Michael fell asleep at last, and awoke as
people were politely applauding. He sheepishly gathered up his
stuff and tried to slip out, but the man who had run the seminar
was near the door, where people were shaking his hand and chatting
with him. Michael tried to look interested in the ornate, free
standing model of the solar system in one corner of the room,
waiting for people to clear out.

Finally it seemed that they were all gone,
so he dashed to the door. But as he tried to work his way through
the long corridor leading back to the central hallway, he stopped
as he heard voices around the corner ahead of him.

“I’ve always thought of you as an evil
queen, Dalton, but never a wicked witch,” someone was saying
softly, to masculine chuckles. “You certainly put that sleeping
beauty down, now, didn’t you?”

“You are incorrect, Evander; that was indeed
an evil queen who cast a spell on Sleeping Beauty. And, I must note
that had I some magical power over such lads, it would have been to
my advantage to use it for more nefarious adventures, rather than
to send them into slumber! In any event, I hardly think the topic
was of interest to the poor boy.” The second speaker, Dalton,
seemed more amused than insulted, but Michael shrank away from the
corner in horror. It was the man who had just presented on
servants. There was no doubt who they were talking about. Michael
knew he should just back away down the corridor and leave them to
their private conversation, but his face burned and he stayed where
he was.

“I agree,” said the first man with another
chuckle. “I think it might have been the first time he ever heard
that actual labor might be associated with service. Such a shame
for old Ward, isn’t it? To have that American chap in his line. Bad
enough to have him there—worse to have him here! Him and his nest
of goslings, following him about. Three juniors, can you imagine? I
would have bloody well liked to bring three, if I had them.”

“The one you have introduced me to is quite
sufficient,” Dalton laughed. “Although I shudder to consider how
many pages of notes you will have to examine later on.”

“Her notes are quite remarkable, actually. I
shall send you some of her writing, I think you will approve. I
need to discuss her finishing with you anyway. Finishing!” The
speaker laughed. “Oh, if only we could do a little finishing on
some of Negel’s lot! It would spare us some embarrassment later on,
what? Damn shame. Listen, old man, we’re all off to the pantry
tonight for a brandy, shall we see you there?”