The Trainer (15 page)

When he had started all of this, it was hard
for him to really hit the girls. A little spanking, sure. But use a
heavy whip on one? Even canes seemed too harsh for their delicate
bodies and skin.

But Geoff had laughed at him and his
concerns. “Oh, don’t be so sexist,” he said, clapping Michael on
the back. “Women have proven over and over again that they far
surpass we mere males in pain tolerance, Mike! And these women want
you to hit them. You’re not bullying them, Mike, you’re giving them
what they crave. Hell, they could take more than most of the boys
we‘ll ever see! You’ll find out.”

And boy, did he! There was always a guy or
two who liked a good thumping, liked an array of bruises or stripes
to carry for a few days. But some of the slave girls he’d played
with truly defined the term “pain slut.”

So now, he wasn’t afraid to pull his arm way
back and let fly with this fat bundle of black tresses, even when
her body hit the cross and she lost a bit of breath. He laughed as
he gave her a few seconds to gather and brace herself. “Remember—be
a good girl!” he warned. He hoped that wanting to impress him might
keep her from using the “safe word” which would make him stop the
scene. Nothing made him lose interest more than some bottom whining
out a code word to make him stop playing, walk over to ask what’s
wrong, et cetera.

But he didn’t have to worry on that account.
Far from fighting him or starting to whine or cry, Karen braced
herself eagerly for it, twisting her body from side to side as he
thumped her over and over again. She sighed and groaned and
whimpered sometimes, but she loved it, every second of it, as his
arm grew sore and sweat dripped down his chest and back.

He paused to take a drink himself, wiping
his mouth with the back of his hand, and took an extra long draft
and pulled her head back by the hair. Covering her mouth with his,
he fed her water, a hot move much favored in Geoff’s training
house. What was more primal than feeding and watering a slave in
this intimate way? He let her go with a grin and walked back to his
whips to change to the narrow-tressed one again, and as he did, he
caught sight of one of Geoff’s regular spotters, who was in the
small group of spectators who had ringed this little corner of the
dungeon. The man’s eyes flew open wider, and he grinned back at
Mike with a “thumbs up” gesture, and Mike felt like there was
nothing he could do wrong.

It was turning out to be a better weekend
than he expected.

Back in his hotel room, he did grab her by
the hair as he pulled her into the middle of the floor. “I bet you
want to be fucked,” he said, popping the button of his leather
jeans.

“Oh, God, yes, yes, sir, please!” she
begged, from her knees. Her eyes were wide, her back and legs all
red and striped, and he knew her nipples were so sore that a gentle
touch would make her flinch.

“But you didn’t think you would,” he said
teasingly. “You wanted to make me ask for it, didn’t you? Wanted to
make me beg to fuck your hot sweaty body, hmmm?”

“I—I was just trying to go slow,” she
insisted, with the slightest of whimpers. “It’s only common
sense... I don’t usually... I mean, I never...”

“Don’t usually fuck on the first date?” he
asked, taking a seat. “Well, that’s okay. You can go now.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock, and she
blushed. “But—but—I want to with you!”

“Then apologize for thinking that you
wouldn’t,” Michael said, feeling his cock swelling at the sight of
her despair. “Tell me how sorry you are for not saying I could fuck
you any way I wanted to.”

“But that’s what they say you should do,”
she said with a look of confusion. “Hardly anyone I know has sex
the first time they play with someone. I mean, we never even
discussed safe sex!”

Michael reached into his bag and pulled out
the silver box that held his safe sex supplies. He tossed a condom
and a little tube of lube onto the floor between them. “Next
question?” he said. “I’m still waiting for that apology.”

Karen looked up at him, and then her eyes
scanned down to his crotch and lingered, and then flitted to the
condom on the floor in front of her. She looked back up, and her
lips parted. Her face was still red, and she closed her eyes as she
whispered, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Tell me how much you want it,” Michael
sneered. “And call me master, slut.”

“Yes! Yes, master! Please... oh, God, I need
to get fucked so bad,” she whimpered. “Please, master, fuck
me!”

His cock grew harder. “Tell me how much you
want my cock,” he said, unfastening the fly of his jeans. The
chilled air of the room touched his cock as it jutted from the fly,
but that did nothing to lessen the erection.

“Oh! Yes, yes, I want that cock in me,
please,” she murmured, moving forward on her knees. She picked up
the condom and offered it to him like a sacrifice. “Oh, please,
master, fuck me, I want it so bad!”

“Kiss my boots like a good little slave
bitch,” he said, taking the condom from her hands. “Lick them and
make me believe you’ll take my cock wherever I want to put it!”

He could feel her mouth as she pressed
frantic kisses to his boots, and he took his cock in one hand as
she abased herself. Oh, yes, that was more like it! No longer was
she the independent, negotiating bottom who could tell him what to
do, but his own personal cock-slave, begging for a taste, begging
to be used.

He made her lie on her back and spread her
legs wide, opening her pussy lips for him. Then he changed his mind
and had her present to him doggy style, her ass up in the air, head
down to the floor. Finally, he had her lie on her back on the
table, holding her own ankles as she displayed herself in the
lewdest position he could come up with, and he stood between her
legs and thrust in with one hard slam.

By the time he had eased the condom down
over his cock, he was far too aroused to have a nice, long fuck. He
used her quickly and roughly, and wasn’t surprised when she came as
fast as he did. She was sweet and dripping wet, and when he called
her his slut, she responded by bucking up against him and drawing
him in so tight that there was nothing else to do but shoot.

He didn’t put her on the floor, as he would
have done with a proper slave, but cuddled with her in bed, an
interesting change of pace for him. In the morning, she jumped out
of bed when the room service came, and served him without being
told to, even waiting for him to invite her before perching on the
edge of the bed to devour some toast and coffee.

“So where did you learn your manners?” he
asked over orange juice.

“Self taught,” she boasted, tossing her hair
back. “That’s all I could do, since I haven’t found a man who can
really master me.”

“Oh?” He laughed and stretched. “That’s news
to me!”

“Does that mean you want to be my real
master?” she asked. Suddenly, there was a serious note in her
voice, and Michael paused and bit back the quick agreement that was
on his lips. It was almost funny how she said “real” like that. How
little she knew how real it could be!

But she was soft world! He
couldn’t—shouldn’t—say anything.

“Well—” he started to say.

She brought one finger up to her lips and
made a “shushing” sound. “It’s okay,” she said, her smile just
touched by sadness. “I know, it’s too early to make any decision
about that, we hardly know each other, you’re married, or gay, or
both, and besides, you couldn’t possibly give up training for the
Olympic rowing team or something.”

“And you overcompensate,” he drawled.

She sighed. “Yes, I guess I do. I’m sorry.
But I also know that this is a weekend conference, and not the time
to do anything but have fun. Wanna stay with me today, or play the
field?”

He marveled at her composure. Damn, he
thought, reaching out to caress those shining curls. She’s
Marketplace material, or I’ll eat my brand new eighty-buck cap.
Even the spotter last night had been watching them play, surely
that was a positive sign that she was something special! “Let’s see
what’s on the schedule for today,” he said.

She made it easy for him. She gave him a
very nice blow job in the shower, while the hot water ran down his
back, and didn’t even look humiliated when he deliberately came in
her face and then shoved her under the water. No, she loved it! A
natural slave, for sure!

His eyes wandered during the day, as they
always did. But as they sat together in the back rows of the
conference rooms set up for discussions about how to use medical
devices as torment producers and how people used a family metaphor
in order to structure their sex and power issues, he found it
pleasant to wrap an arm around her, to play with her hair or tease
her during moments of great seriousness and get her to laugh. It
was also enjoyable to watch her use these self-taught skills on
him—fading gently into the background when his attention was on
something or someone else, jumping up before he did and waiting
until he was seated to sit down herself, opening doors—for such a
supposed novice, she had all the right instincts. Yeah, her timing
was off, and she didn’t catch all the nuances, but she was pretty
damn good. Hell, Geoff had accepted trainees who had less of a feel
for the art than she did.

He fucked her again at lunch time, this time
in the ass. He made her hold her cheeks open for him, the hotel
television tuned to the pay-for-porn channel, and he fucked her a
good long time while watching better-looking women cavort on the
screen. Again, she didn’t turn on him and look uncomfortable or
hateful at this sort of use, only profoundly humiliated—and
massively turned on.

More and more perfect!

He took her to dinner in the hotel
restaurant that night, and ordered for her. She finally looked a
little put out, but bit her lip and smiled anyway.

“Well, that’s very dominant,” she said after
the waiter had gone. “But what if I had dietary restrictions? What
if I was a vegetarian?”

“Then you would have said, ‘I’m sorry, sir,
but I’m allergic to radishes, or my religion forbids me to eat
shellfish,’” Michael responded. It was the standard way slaves were
coached to respond to situations like that. It was out of his mouth
before he realized it, and he felt a flash of doubt. Should he have
said that? Hell, what did it matter? It was only one thing, and not
that important anyway.

“Why would I be sorry?” she asked.

“Because you neglected to tell me that
important part of your life, taking away from me the opportunity to
do the right thing by you.”

She nodded. “You mean, it’s part of the
negotiation.”

“No! I mean it’s part of the contract. You
reveal everything, so that I can always know what to do.”

“Isn’t it a little too early for a
contract?” She giggled and drank some ice water—he hadn’t ordered
her any wine. He snickered a little too—one of the seminars that
day had been on slave contracts. The central part of the
presentation had a one page contract which involved signing over
one’s soul, with the proviso that emotional harm to the slave may
sever the contract at any time. “But does the master get to keep
the soul?” Michael had whispered to Karen.

“Oh, definitely too early for the kinds of
contracts we heard today,” he said. “What I mean was the contract
that takes place between the—the dominant and the submissive.” He
had been about to say “owner and owned” but decided that it sounded
too Marketplace. It was no big deal to use the popular vernacular,
though. It was pretty common in Geoff’s place. “It’s not so much a
written contract, but a social one. But it’s always conditional—the
dominant can’t be depended on to make the right decisions without
all the information on hand. That’s why the submissive has to be
honest, and tell their dominant everything.”

“You sound like you’ve been doing this for a
while,” she said softly.

“Oh yeah!” He leaned back in the chair,
throwing one arm across the back. “You can say it’s my life.”

“That’s great. I wish it could be my life.”
The waiter brought over the appetizer and Michael didn’t follow up
on that obvious invitation. He heard the inner voice cautioning
him—you never discuss Marketplace business with strangers, and
never in an open area where you might be overheard. You do not
approach soft-world people and tell them about the Marketplace, not
without a lengthy spotting process. But he was already planning to
pack his training kit with everything he’d brought with him and
take Karen to the play party that night, to tie her up somewhere
very visible and make her scream for pleasure. Maybe share her with
someone, if he could find someone he could trust—that was always a
good test. And, if she still responded well, to take her back to
his room and this time, use her for a good long time and put her on
the floor, where real slaves belonged.

He also began to wonder what Geoff would
think of her.

The days began to pass with some sense of
order, at last. Every day now, Michael woke up to hours of work
with Anderson and Tara, observing and helping the Trainer out,
doing everything from basic role-playing to actually acting as her
assistant. This was more like it—in the hands of the Trainer of
Trainers, he was finally getting some instruction.

Not that it was formal or anything. She
never really talked to him about “this is the way to do things.”
Instead, she merely did whatever she was doing with Tara, and gave
him the briefest of instructions concerning what he was supposed to
do. But she insisted that he keep exhaustive notes, very
occasionally asking for the journal and scanning a page at random.
Then, she would return his handwritten pages to him with a request
for more commentary and more details, always more details.