The Trainer (17 page)

“Good,” Chris said. “Now, on your own. Turn
to leave... “ He twirled a finger to direct her and she started to
walk toward the door to the dining room. When he clapped, she made
that turn, quickly, but without a hint of surprise, coming to rest
in a waiting mode in perfect obedience. Michael pursed his lips in
grudging admiration. But apparently, Chris was not satisfied.

“Too Japanese,” he complained, coming
forward to push her into an even more perfect posture. “Don’t dip
your head so low, it looks exaggerated. Use those moves only when
serving Japanese people, and then only if you’re sure they’re
Marketplace. We’ll do it again.”

“Yes, Chris,” she said softly, shaking out
and preparing to start the moves. Chris shot a glance toward the
door, and Michael knew that he had always known that they were
being watched.

“Is there something I can do for you, Mike?”
he asked. Joan didn’t even peek at Michael out of the corner of her
eye, but stood calmly at attention, waiting for Chris to return to
the exercise.

“No,” Michael said. “Sorry to bother you.”
He ducked back into the hallway, and frowned, his stomach churning
again.

She was supposed to be my slave, he thought.
And here I am, playing entry level master games with the graduate,
learning next to nothing while he’s doing the actual training I’m
supposed to be doing!

Tara came down the stairs and waited for his
acknowledgment. There did seem to be a touch of new tension in
her—something that was neither fear nor pleasurable anticipation,
and Michael held out his hand and studied her when she passed the
condoms to him. Their plastic wrappers crinkled in his palm, and he
saw the slight shake in her own hand, the wavering in the too-quick
breath that she took.

The moment was gone. He couldn’t screw her
now, not with the image of the training going on across the hall so
fresh in his brain. Maybe later.

“That took long enough,” he bitched,
pocketing the safes. “In fact, it took too long, didn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, please forgive me.”

“Let’s retrace the steps. I’ll follow you,
and you’ll crawl, and we’ll still get back in shorter time than you
did. Won’t we?”

“Yes, sir.” Glumly, she got down onto her
hands and knees, and he reminded himself to punish her for that,
too. As she mounted the stairs, he nudged her to go faster, aching
to get away from the sound of coaching, that careful dance going on
in the front room.

He took her to bed the following day,
literally threw her onto his bed, slapping her body until she
brought herself up on all fours again, pushing himself into her
with a release that felt almost cosmic—his entire body tingling
with need. Tara whimpered like a puppy when he sank his cock deep
into her pussy, and pushed back at him with just the proper amount
of eagerness, willing, happy, but not slutty. He barely managed to
last ten minutes—and it was an uphill struggle all the way. She was
so pretty under him, red-cheeked, little pink marks where his hands
had struck, her hair in disarray, her body trembling with the force
of every thrust!

And when he finished with fucking her, he
tumbled her over onto her back and played with her body, one hand
on her pussy, while he leaned on his elbow. “You needed to get
fucked,” he said with a grin. “Hell, you need this every day.”

“As you say, sir,” she breathed, her hips
moving up slightly. His fingers parted her wet lips and slid
between them—she had seemed tight, a little dry. Well, she is
older, Michael reflected. He resolved to have her bring some lube
next time, since the slick surface of the condom wasn’t sufficient.
He’d had wonderful experiences with a cinnamon-flavored one that
left a tingly sensation on sensitive tissues. The idea of making
her buck a little more under him left him intrigued. He stabbed his
fingers into her, where his cock had so recently plundered, and she
did moan and spread her legs wider.

Now, that was a slave reaction, he thought
smugly. A sudden guilty flash hit him—he really should have
interviewed her before fucking. Yesterday’s little condom fetching
exercise had been devoid of any formal questioning. And by the time
he had her in here with one of those condoms unrolling over his
cock, he had forgotten about his great idea to conduct an interview
while fucking her. He sighed, and her eyes turned to him
immediately.

“Please let me tend to you, sir,” she
whispered, her light hand resting gently on his chest. He nodded,
interested in what that could mean, and watched her roll herself
gracefully up and off the bed. She found the used condom and threw
it away, and ran a hand towel under warm water and brought it back
to wipe him down. He grinned and allowed her—there had been times
at Geoff’s when a pleasure slave had done this, and it was always
nice. It was clear that Tara was no pleasure slave, though—her
movements were neat and sure, but they lacked a certain edge of
sensuality. She didn’t show him with every move that she wanted
him, needed him.

“Touch me more when you do that,” he
instructed. “Show me how much you liked it, you little slut. You
are a slut for your master, aren’t you?”

Tara colored, but obeyed him, and trailed
her fingers on his body as she finished her task. “I am whatever he
wishes me to be, sir,” she said evasively, dipping her head with
the slightest of smiles.

Michael leaned back and laughed. “Oh, yeah,
you’re a slut for him,” he said confidently. “Does he just fuck you
the normal way? Or does he like blowjobs, anal sex, kinky stuff?
Does he tie you up and beat you sometimes?”

“He is a man of many... tastes,” Tara said
as she put the towel aside and cuddled up next to Michael in the
spot he indicated for her.

“I’m a man of many tastes, too,” Michael
said, taking one of her breasts in one hand and pressing. “Let’s
see how many new ones I can show you. Are you going to suck my cock
like a good girl? Open wide for me like the little slave slut you
are deep inside? I can see right past this professional attitude
you have. You need someone to take you, don’t you? Just push you
down and make you a real slave girl.”

“As you—”

“No, no, I don’t want to hear that. Just say
yes. Say, yes, I need to be taken. Make me believe it! Or else—” He
pinched her nipple sharply. “There may not be too many sex toys
around here, but I know where there are some clothespins. So, say
it and mean it.”

“Yes, sir!” she said, with the slightest of
gasps. “Yes, please, I need someone to take me, sir, I do!”

“Good!” Michael declared, letting her go.
“Well, until you go back to your master, I’m that man. So, I want
to hear more sounds from you, and lots more begging. Disappoint me,
and you’ll be punished. Harshly!” He pondered how to appropriately
structure punishments without his training kit, and decided he’d
need to assemble a makeshift one of household items. He could just
keep it in his room. If Parker could have his damn strap, surely a
handful of clothespins, some rope, and maybe a cheap riding crop
wouldn’t be out of the question. He waved one hand, dismissing
Tara, and she backed away from him gently.

What could he say about this little session
with her? It was perfect. Lacking somewhat in true passion, but she
wasn’t in love with him, now was she? No slave could love everyone
who used them, many never even love their masters. You could only
expect that they loved the service—that they loved being useful,
and being used. And Tara showed every sign of being devoted to her
task, down to the way she brushed her hair over his toes before she
quietly gathered up her dress and shoes and tiptoed out the door.
He wiggled his toes after she left, enjoying the memory of that
silken softness tangling itself up in him. Nice touch. He’d have to
remember to write that down.

He had returned to writing after putting
absolutely nothing on paper the previous day. Fortunately for him,
Anderson had not asked to see his notes last night or this
morning—she probably assumed that he was keeping them up. Still
naked, he reached for the notebook he had begun to use, and plucked
a pen out of the bed stand drawer. Lying on his belly, he began to
describe what he’d just done with Tara, and what her observable
reactions were. He tried to be specific—to describe what happened
instead of how he felt. Then he transcribed his comments and her
answers as best as he could recall them, thinking that he would
have to bring the tape recorder in if he was doing his interviews
before or after sex.

He wondered briefly how Tara was taking care
of her next task, helping Joan in the kitchen, teaching her how to
work with Vicente. Would she still have that sweet after-sex flush?
Would she have to excuse herself, splash some water on her face,
and compose herself first? Did the two girls share whispered
secrets about the trainers, and about what happened in these
private sessions?

He tried to imagine it—Tara and Joan
whispering, giggling, sharing confidences. It was difficult. Joan,
for all her time in training and the years spent growing up in
expectation for the Marketplace, was all natural moves, shy smiles,
high-pitched giggles, and expectant glances. Tara was reserved,
controlled, her every facial expression planned. It was the mark of
someone who was experienced and talented—they overcompensated,
trying to be perfect, and hated themselves when they failed. Geoff
always said it was a mark of low self-esteem.

Michael thought that was a bunch of crap. It
was just slaves doing the best they could. Some started out
confident, others grew into it. It really didn’t matter as long as
they did their jobs correctly and weren’t annoying.

Tara did hate it when she messed up—wincing
before even a hint of a reprimand, tending slightly toward
sulkiness when she had to wait to be punished. Joan looked
embarrassed or ashamed and submitted to her disciplines with a good
attitude, always promising to be better in the future. Tara
couldn’t understand why she had fucked up in the past.

That was a good observation, he thought,
starting a new paragraph. I better write it down. He did so, adding
that Tara could probably use a few more pep talks about pleasing
one’s owner, and then rolled onto his back. It was pleasantly warm
in the room. Of course, the house had to be kept warm, for the
comfort of the occasionally naked slaves. If he wanted to, he could
wear shorts and a T-shirt—but he didn’t. Nope—a dress shirt every
day, although he was already tired of ties. Leashes made of silk,
as far as he was concerned.

But Parker wore one every day. Jackets, too,
most of the time. Neatly pressed pants, rarely jeans, and when he
did wear them, they were black Levi’s 501s, never pressed, but neat
and crisp-looking on him. Boots, always—lace up, or engineer style,
or a short boot that looked correct with the suits yet just a
little bit more butch than your average men’s dress boot. Whichever
he wore, they were always shined to a mirror-like surface. Michael
wondered who did them. Boot polishing didn’t seem like something
either girl would be trained to do—although it certainly wasn’t
difficult to teach. Good make-work, too.

Parker, Parker. Michael still hadn’t figured
out what he was doing in Anderson’s house. He had done a little
catch-up reading in the binders that Anderson had so neatly
cataloged and to his chagrin realized that Chris Parker had been
around for quite some time. He was mentioned several times in
Anderson’s yearly reports, mostly about techniques he had designed
for training novices. And he was even referenced here and there,
although Michael didn’t have the heart to look up the articles
which were referenced. He didn’t want to read what Chris Parker
thought about patience, or motor memory, or... anything else for
that matter!

But he had been working at the entry level
house on Long Island for at least three or four years, maybe
longer. So why was he here, with the Trainer of Trainers? Surely,
he was already as trained as he could be! Was he some special
student of hers? She didn’t treat him like a partner or a student,
although he treated her like a goddess. If they were lovers, they
sure didn’t show it. No, it seemed that he was part guest, part
assistant, part acolyte, and all business. His focus was on the
house, and what Anderson told him to do, and whatever he was
writing when he shut himself away with his computer and sheaves of
papers.

Not that I’m living such a thrilling life
myself, Michael reminded himself. But it would be so much easier of
he wasn’t here! I wouldn’t have his goddamn example to work against
every fucking day. Whatever I’m allowed to do, whatever I get to
see, he’s always there, he always lets me know that he’s been
around longer, he did all this first. He’s the star pupil, and I’m
shit.

It was frustrating. But at least he was
doing something. And if the Trainer of Trainers wanted him to play
roles and write notes, dammit, that was exactly what he was going
to do, until she told him otherwise. At least now he was getting
laid! No more mistakes for him. If anything like what happened with
Karen ever happened here, he’d be out of the Marketplace for the
rest of his life.

Suddenly chilly, he got up to get
dressed.

One early afternoon, Chris took Tara with
him out of the house on some (as usual) unexplained errand. Much to
Michael’s surprise and joy, he got to work with Anderson and Joan
for a little while. The Trainer gave him a sheet of questions with
their proper answers, and had him drill Joan while Anderson herself
watched. Every once in a while, Anderson would change Joan’s
posture, covering about twenty different positions in all. She used
a combination of voice commands and hand signals, and Michael
frantically took notes as often as he could.