The Trainer (12 page)

“At my age, I shall be astounded to find
myself still breathing after hours, dear boy. But if life remains
in me, I shall. Bring your remarkable girl. Save the comfortable
seat by the fire for me, and tell Mr. Glin that I have requested
it.”

“Ta, then!”

Michael waited, head down, until he heard
retreating footsteps. So, they didn’t think much of Geoff, huh? He
started to move forward, his temper up. Bunch of snobs, all of
them, with their high-class accents and their fancy phrasing and
their... Piercing light blue eyes, wavy like the reflection of
light over a shallow lake, and staring into his own as he almost
ran into the man named Dalton.

“Oh! I—I’m sorry,” Michael stammered.

“No, please forgive me, I was clearly in
your pathway,” the older man said, with a nod of his head. “My
sincere apologies.”

“No—no, it was my fault,” Michael said,
feeling another blush coming up. Of all times for it! But it didn’t
help knowing that this man had just been referring to him as
“Sleeping Beauty.” Being an object of admiration was one thing—by a
man old enough to be his grandfather was something else! He
swallowed and wondered if he should apologize for falling asleep,
make some excuse. But it seemed to awkward to bring up, so instead,
he said, “Um—nice workshop. I enjoyed it. Really.”

“Thank you, young man. I am gratified to
hear that.” The man nodded gently again, and Michael could just
feel that he was being dismissed. This only served to get him
angrier.

“You know,” he said, before he even thought
it through, “we’re not as bad as you think. We Americans. Geoff is
a pretty major trainer out in California.” For a second, Michael
wondered whether he should have referred to Geoff as Mr. Negel—but
Geoff said that he hated that, so why put on airs to impress the
natives?

“Undoubtedly he is,” Dalton said easily.
“But I assure you, no one here has or shall cast aspersions upon
all American trainers. We are very pleased to have such strong ties
with many of our American friends and fellow professionals.”

“Well—good,” Michael said. But he heard the
careful phrasing. This lecturer was not saying that they liked or
respected Geoff—only that there were some American trainers they
did get along with. He still felt angry—but how could he really
show it to this patient old man? Hell, with his deep eyes and high
cheekbones, pale skin over a high, domed and nearly hairless
forehead, he looked like some movie version of a butler or the
headmaster of a school for boys. And even though his tone of voice
suggested dismissal, he didn’t turn away, and Michael felt as
though this was a perfect chance to move beyond his gaffe—and to
perhaps make a bigger move than he even imagined before flying to
England.

“I’m actually interested in making some new
connections,” Michael said suddenly, trying to be cool about it.
“I—I am really impressed with everything here. Like, you guys have
been around forever. You must know—everything! And I could use some
more, um, experience myself. With different methods, you know?
Different traditions. So—er—who in the States do you think
is—someone you’d have strong ties with?”

Dalton blinked for a moment, and Michael
wondered what he did wrong. Betrayed Geoff? he asked himself. But
I’m not doing anything! he argued back. I’m just asking!

“Perhaps Mr. Negel would be of greater
assistance to you in this matter,” the older man said gently. “I
cannot seem to recall any particular names right now.”

“What about Anderson?”

Dalton looked down and smiled for a moment,
and then back up into Michael’s eyes. “Oh, indeed,” he said slowly.
“I would say Master Trainer Anderson is quite a worthy individual.
A splendid trainer. But young man—if I might be so bold—she is
slightly out of your league at this time.”

“She?” Michael echoed.

Dalton nodded, as though that answered
everything. “Yes, my dear boy. I am afraid I must be going. Best of
luck to you, and... perhaps you might consider getting a better
rest tonight.”

Well, forget about that! All through the
formal dinner that night and all the way back into the village,
Michael was stricken with dark thoughts about his future. When Brad
woke the slaves up again and made them dash into his luggage for
sex toys, Michael almost groaned out loud. He was in no mood to
play! But desperate to keep from showing Geoff how disturbed he
was, he did pick up a whip and really did a number on the male
slave for Brad’s enjoyment, while the master had one girl suck his
cock and the other girl spread her legs for Crystal to fist. Geoff
watched it all, happily proud of the tableau, and took one of the
girls into his room with him when he was ready to turn in. Brad
offered a choice of boy or girl for Mike and Crystal to share, but
this time, Crystal admitted that she, too, was tired, and Brad went
happily off with one of each sex, the way he liked it best.

And Michael stared at the ceiling, wishing
that he could forget the look of pity that he’d seen in Dalton’s
water-blue eyes before the old man excused himself. The folder with
Anderson’s name on it was in his briefcase.

In the middle of the night, he crept out of
his bed and into the kitchen to read from it. He thought, even as
he forced his tired mind to make sense of the paragraphs, how come
I never heard of her? How come I didn’t even know she was a woman,
for crying out loud? What is a Master Trainer?

What are you hiding from us, Geoff?

And, he felt guilty as hell.

If Michael had any single question about
what exactly Anderson did with her clients, it would have been
“What can you do to improve perfection?” Because Anderson never
took on a client who was inexperienced or untrained—in fact, her
guidelines specified somewhat extensive training or years of
experience in the collar before she would even agree to read a
file. And slaves weren’t static—every day in the collar made them
better, sharper. Geoff always said, “Anything a trainer misses,
time will provide.” Of course, that wasn’t always the case. A bad
owner could easily ruin a good slave by not utilizing them, or by
being capricious in their control. Brad’s slaves were perfect
examples of that. So, okay, maybe they weren’t the polished
personal slaves at Rothmere when they left Geoff’s training house.
But Brad did nothing to keep them sharp or improve them, so
naturally they got lazy! That’s what slaves were like!

But if attention was paid to the structure
of a slave’s life, and they were kept suitably busy, they would
achieve a higher level of response in all things. Their service
would sharpen, their sexual abilities would strengthen, and boom,
you’d have one piece of prime material on your hands. It was
conventional wisdom.

But how do you make them even better?

Simple, according to Anderson. Step one was
to teach them how to learn.

The morning after Michael belatedly began
his journal, Anderson finally took him in hand, introducing him to
a session with Tara. At first, Michael thought it was going to be
strictly observation—he had never interviewed Tara, and she was
already almost finished with her training. But Anderson put him to
work right away—and not next to her, either. Next to Tara.

The situation was sketched out for them
both.

“You’re assigned to clip all articles
containing references to Italy,” Anderson instructed, pointing to a
pile of old newspapers and magazines. “They have to be attached to
file cards and filed according to the topics in the folders. In the
meantime, your owner is going to be wanting your services
elsewhere. The exercise is to pass from task to task seamlessly,
and to complete the assignment. To complicate matters, here is a
new person who you have to instruct in filing.” She pointed to
Michael. “He is not a slave, so you must treat him with respect due
your owner’s paid staff.”

“Yes, Trainer.” Tara smiled at Michael and
he nodded, somewhat confused about what exactly he had to do.
Anderson had not given him separate instructions at all, only said
to play along and fulfill his part.

“Okay—begin working.” Anderson watched for a
few seconds, and the left the room.

Tara carried the papers over to the table
and began sorting. Michael took a few off the top and began
scanning.

“Have you done this work before, sir?”

“Well, no not exactly.” He sat down and
waved a hand over the stacks of papers. “Why don’t you show me
how?” How absurd, to learn training by having a slave teach you
something. But if that’s what Anderson wants...

“First, we lay out the papers according to
type, and then we go through them looking for articles,” Tara said,
continuing to work. “Anything having to do with the topic gets
marked, and then laid aside. Everything else is immediately thrown
away. The recycle bin is over there.”

Michael nodded.

“Then, we cut out the articles and fill out
the reference card for them. We can separate them first, or just
file as we finish them. Both ways seem to take the same amount of
time, at least in my experience. Is there anything else I can tell
you, sir?”

Well, that was a better way of asking if he
understood. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “You just show me how
you’re splitting the papers up, and I’ll follow your lead.”

“Thank you, sir.” And she did—quickly and
without any confusing directions. She would make a good manager,
Michael reflected. She could organize a job and explain it
well.

“What exactly will you be doing?” he asked
after a few minutes of working in silence. “When you get home I
mean.”

“I will be the Judge’s personal assistant
and his accountant,” she said.

“Oh yeah? I didn’t realize you belonged to a
Judge.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled again, and he felt a
slight jump of erotic pleasure that surprised him. This had been
the first morning he hadn’t thought of sex before anything else—it
was a delayed reaction, no doubt.

“He is my third owner, sir,” Tara continued.
“His former assistant was Anderson-trained as well.”

“So he’s gotten used to having slaves with
X-ray vision, I guess.”

She blushed, that oh-so-charming reaction
that made so many slaves a delight to play with. “As you say,
sir.”

They would have to start reading soon, which
would cut down on Michael’s opportunity to chat and flirt a little
more. He leaned over the table, ignoring the papers. “Will you be
his only slave?”

“No sir, he also has a security manager and
chauffeur.”

“A lucky man. Will he use you sexually?”

Another blush. “Yes sir, I believe he will.
He has already.”

“Oh yeah?” He looked her over, trying to see
past the simple black dress. “When was the last time you were
fucked?”

“Er—”

Well, finally! Something to trip her up.
Michael grinned and hooked one leg over the table edge.

“That would be about six days ago, sir.” She
busied herself with finishing up the separations, and then turning
away to get a pair of pens and two scissors.

“Six days!” Michael wondered who it was.
Surely not Parker—but Anderson? He tried to imagine the cool,
laid-back woman actually getting worked up and fucking. It was
difficult.

“Who—”

The door banged open, and Anderson appeared
again. “Find out who the fourth signatory was on the Declaration of
Independence, and change the towels in the blue bathroom.”

“Yes, Trainer,” Tara said instantly. And
with a nod to Michael, she headed out the door.

Michael waited until he could hear her
footsteps on the stairs before speaking. “Listen, Trainer—is there
anything I should know about what my part is here? It’s okay for me
to talk to her, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely, Mike. I want you to talk to
her. You can also make use of her in practical ways—you are an
employee of her owner, and she is his slave. Flirt with her, touch
her—she will be expected to tell you if you are requesting
something she may not give. Also, remember that you’re both
responsible for finishing the task. I want you to study the way she
manages her time and how she manages you.”

“You got it.” Well, that was understandable
at least. He shuffled through a few papers and decided to wait
until Tara got back to pick up the work again.

Tara returned in about three minutes and
picked up the phone, dialing a long number.

“Who are you calling?”

“The New York Public Library, sir,” she
said, covering the mouthpiece. She listened for a while, and
punched another number. While she was on hold, she picked up a
scissors and began to cut articles out. Most industrious. After a
while, she got to ask her question, wait some more, and then she
picked up one of the pens and jotted a name down onto an index
card.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Michael
commented.

“Oh, yes sir. Most central branches have a
line to connect to researchers. Even the Library of Congress has
one. Excuse me please, while I deliver this.” She bounded out, and
Michael whistled through his teeth. Well, how the hell else could
you find out something like that, he wondered. If you had a big
library, and it had a history section, how would you know where to
look? You could waste time looking through several books before you
found one that listed the signers in order.

A very important thing to know—how to find
out what you don’t know.

“Did you know about that service before you
got here?” he asked her when she returned.

“There is a similar service in St. Louis,
sir. I called the first week I was here to make sure I had the
proper telephone numbers. It will be part of my job to do simple
research, in order to save the paralegal for more important
tasks.”

“Now, how did you know I wanted to know
that?”