The Trainer (23 page)

Like right now, even as Chris was stretching
out a little, Michael could see the twisted edge of that sardonic
little smile that always meant a controlled amusement. Michael
began to regret coming down early. It would have been better if he
had just stayed the hell in bed.

“Don’t worry,” Chris said, in that annoying
way he had of reading silences. “You’re doing things as properly as
can be expected.” And with that, he nodded to Vicente, who grinned
and nodded back, and the Chris left the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ,” Michael muttered. “Just rub
it in, why don’t you?”

“Now, now, Mr. Chris don’t mean any harm,”
Vicente said with a laugh.

“Doesn’t he? He hates my guts.”

“Oh, no he don’t. If he hates you, he don’t
talk to you at all.” He began to lay out breakfast ingredients, and
poured the remainder of the first pot of coffee into a carafe. “You
got to lighten up, Mr. Michael, eh?”

“I don’t see how. I don’t know what I’m
doing, I have no idea whether I’m doing it right—and Parker makes
me feel like I’m an idiot.” Michael found the words coming out
without any real volition, and bit his lip angrily. Griping to the
cook, oh that’s real professional.

“Listen to me,” Vicente said, leaning over
to top off Michael’s coffee. “I been with Anders’ now, oh, many
years. Every time she gets a new student, there is something
different. One time this way, one time that way. If I don’t know
how you supposed to be a student, how do you know?”

“Really?”

“Very truly. And Mr. Chris, oh, I know him
for maybe... six years.” He paused to think. “No! Seven years now.
More, maybe. And do you know, when he come here, years ago,
Anders’, she don’t talk to him for weeks—months, maybe! Every day,
he do the work, he go do shopping, he take out the trash, he clean
the rooms, right along with the slaves. And he types, always types.
Never once does he ask her, why you treat me like this—not out
loud. Then, one day, he give her this big damn stick.”

Michael laughed out loud. “No, really?”

“I swear before God, this is true. He come
in with this stick, so long.” He measured a distance of about four
feet off the floor. “He give it to her, she laughs too, just like
you, and then, then she talks to him.”

“Months?”

“It was a very long time,” Vicente said.

“I don’t know if I have that patience.”

“Then you must learn it, Mr. Michael.” He
sighed and smiled when Joan came back in. “This morning, we make
omelets. Mr. Michael, out of my kitchen!”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, hopping off the
stool. He nodded curtly to Joan when he passed her, but wasn’t
wondering when he would be able to get a piece of her. He was
wondering how long he would have to chop the damn wood and carry
the water. He felt the usual renewal of strength—this trip was
proving to be a regular roller coaster of confidence and self
condemnation. But if Mr. Perfect Parker could do it, so could
Michael LaGuardia. Any day.

The initial awkwardness of being among
strangers gave way to a familiarization with the habits of his
housemates and the various jobs expected of him. Pages began to
fill in his notebook, observations of how Tara responded to
everything, notations about movement and language, attitude and
emotional display. In fact, the scope of behaviors he got to
witness was fairly mind-boggling. It had all seemed simple
before—train them to be obedient, and to not show emotions like
boredom, displeasure, or annoyance. Get them to be expressive in
bed, honest during formal interviews, and suitably submissive in
everything else.

But there were so many variables here, so
much to take into consideration! Anderson’s bizarre requests seemed
jarring at first, and then mysterious, giving way, finally, to the
realization that they were deliberately strange in order to cover
every possible situation a slave such as Tara might be expected to
respond to. There was no way of preparing someone for everything,
so the alternative was to prepare them for anything.

Anderson liked that. It was the first line
in his book that she circled and checked. “That’s one of my oldest
rules,” she said happily. “That one goes all the way back. Now,
you’re paying attention.” She referred him back to her library, to
a series of monographs on the topic, and he felt like a star pupil
sent to the head of the class. But she didn’t alter his duties in
any way.

It was still a relief to have the use of
Tara as a sex partner, though. Having that outlet took away the
heaviest distraction of his first few weeks. But there was
something attached to that freedom. Anderson never gave him the
slightest hint that she disapproved of his getting his rocks
off—hell, she was the one who gave him permission to do it! But
Parker—Michael got the distinct impression that Parker didn’t like
it.

As usual. Parker didn’t seem to like
anything about Michael or what he was doing. But this was more
obvious. Michael would appear slightly disheveled from a bout with
Tara and Parker would be the first to see him. He would scan
Michael’s body, taking in the rumpled shirt, the wrinkled pants
leg, the mussed hair. And he would hit Michael with this
look—disgust, mixed with a little contempt and a dose of amusement.
He usually wouldn’t say anything, but later on, some sharp comment,
some pissy little jibe would hit Michael and it was too clear where
it was coming from.

It was a total mystery why the man would act
that way. Trainers weren’t supposed to be jealous over the damn
slaves—slaves come and go, and either you get ’em or you don’t. And
besides, Parker was gay, he said so himself—sort of. Why would he
care if Michael was getting a little from the slave he was helping
to train? Tara was certainly not complaining! Hell, she had a great
time with him, and was probably thanking her stars that she had a
trainer who didn’t just treat her like some corporate assistant.
True, they never did get around to some really in-depth interviews,
using some of the techniques and detailed questions that he found
in one of the more basic Anderson training guides. But Tara had
already been interviewed to death, hadn’t she? Between the Trainer
herself and Chris, and her years of experience? So, obviously it
was better for her to be able to be judged on her performances, and
not on whether or not she answered a question quickly enough.

He wrote these opinions down in his journal,
making them less antagonistic and more rational-sounding, and
continued to write detailed descriptions of what he did to her and
how she responded and whether he rewarded her with an orgasm or
punished her with a spanking, and he tried to ignore Chris’s
occasional hostility. It just made no sense. Instead, he
concentrated on doing everything he could to make himself useful to
the Trainer, and focused on that alone.

One night, Michael found himself alone on
the first floor. Vicente was off, and away for the evening,
probably visiting that girlfriend of his. She was Jamaican, Michael
had found out, and the two of them liked to go dancing. It seemed
amazing to have such a mundane life outside the Anderson house—he
couldn’t imagine doing the same thing.

Chris was also out, having taken the car
God-knows-where. Another little mystery trip that no one spoke
about. Maybe he had a boyfriend.

Joan was with her Japanese tutor, upstairs.
Tara had been given some free time, and the Trainer herself was
catching up on weeks of newspapers and magazines, tucked away in
her room with a plate of brownies and some chamomile tea. She sure
had a sweet tooth—it was amazing how she managed to stay so thin.
It was probably genetic. From time to time, Michael could look at
her high-cheekboned profile and see the faces of the Native
American women who still lived on the reservations. His curiosity
about her origins had replaced the curiosity about Vicente’s. He
wondered if maybe she had a touch of South America in her.

A quiet night in a quiet house. He had been
unsure about how exactly to start a fire, so he didn’t. On nights
like this, he missed both the friendly crowdedness of Geoff’s place
and the presence of a TV. It would be great to lean back and
channel surf for a while, just clear his head and enjoy some
mindless entertainment. He had looked through the CD rack and found
a few albums that he liked, but listening to music by himself
didn’t feel right. Music was background for socializing. He would
go out himself, but he had no idea where to go.

That reminded him sharply of his intention
to seek out the local SM scene. He went to the office and pulled
out some of the local papers Chris had mentioned to him during the
first week, and began to scan. He had jotted down two likely
organizations and two public SM/sex clubs when the unfamiliar sound
of the doorbell made him jump.

He got up to answer it, knowing that Tara
wouldn’t make it downstairs in time. Standing on the stoop was an
older man, as tall as Michael, with black hair and a
salt-and-pepper beard. He was wearing a blue winter jacket with the
hood flipped back. He looked familiar.

“Hi, what can I do for you?” Michael
asked.

“I’m Grendel Elliot,” the man said. “I’m
here to see Anderson.”

“Sure, come in.” Michael held the door open,
and closed it firmly behind the man. It was frigging cold outside,
and the chilled air swept around their ankles. Anderson hadn’t said
a word about expecting anyone, but then she never did. “Um—can I
take your coat?”

Grendel shrugged the jacket off and rubbed
his hands together. Michael hung it up in the hallway and indicated
the front room. “If you want to take a seat, I’ll go tell Anderson
you’re here.”

“No need,” Grendel said. “I think the lady
on the stairs will take care of that.”

Michael turned to see Tara halting in
mid-step. “At once, sir,” she murmured, turning gracefully.

“Good eyes,” Michael commented. “Want
something hot to drink? Or a drink-drink? I think I can handle
that.”

“No, I’ll wait for the client. Anderson will
no doubt have someone to show off.” He extended his hand. “You’re
Michael LaGuardia. I saw you in San Francisco last year, when you
were with Negel.”

“Great memory, too,” Michael said, shaking.
Of course, it was the last Marketplace event he had gone to before
leaving California. “Glad to meet you. I’ve heard good things about
your house.”

“Thank you.” No corresponding compliment
about Michael’s former house—well, that was to be expected. New
Yorkers were always in a disdainful competition with California;
there was no reason why this wouldn’t extend to Marketplace
people.

The creaks of the stairway announced
Anderson’s arrival. She looked genuinely happy to see Grendel, and
swept into the room to take his hand. “It’s good to see you,” she
said.

“And you. You should come out to the Island
every once in a while. Ride the horses, take some time off.” He
smiled at her and let her hand go. “Alex says hi. So does
Rachel.”

“You be sure to take my ‘hi’ right back.
Have you met Michael?”

“Yes, we just got through the standard
greetings.”

“Then let’s get down to business. Come into
my office, and we’ll talk.”

Grendel nodded and headed over, and the two
of them left Michael alone in the front room. He saw Tara vanish
into the kitchen and counted off exactly one minute until she
reappeared with a tray and headed toward the office. He wondered if
Anderson had told her, or if she knew what Elliot liked. Whether
she was always supposed to serve something to guests, or whether
she needed directions or relied on instincts.

He waited for her to come out, in order to
ask her. No sense in just sitting around doing nothing. It was a
pity that she wouldn’t gossip with him—he would love to know what
business was being discussed behind that closed door. And why
Grendel Elliot—Chris Parker’s former employer—had just happened to
arrive on a night when Parker was out.

* * * *

Grendel paid the proper admiration to Tara
when she left, and Anderson was properly modest. They sat back in
their chairs, her fresh tea steaming on the desk, his coffee
cradled in his hands.

“So, what are we going to do about him?” she
asked, playing with a bracelet on her left wrist. One tap of her
finger sent it spinning.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Grendel
said. “I—we thought it was for the best initially, but now—why is
he waiting so long? What is he waiting for?”

“I think he’s waiting to be told what to
do.”

“Great! Tell him to come on back home.”

She laughed, and after a second or two,
Grendel shrugged. She sighed and looked down briefly. “You know I
can’t do that. It’s against my best interests.”

“What about his best interests?” Grendel put
the coffee cup down on the desk and leaned forward in the chair. “I
don’t suppose you’ve gotten any closer to figuring out what he
really wants, have you?” His sharp eyes asked the real
question.

It’s not wants at all, Anderson thought, as
they stared at each other. It’s what he needs.

“There’s a hunger so strong in him that it
makes a Green Beret look unmotivated,” she said. “Do I know what he
wants? He’s a damn tease—one minute, he’s offering everything, the
next minute he’s the proper, reserved companion who has no personal
agenda.”

Grendel shook his head. “You know he wants
to be a slave.”

Anderson pursed her lips and gave the
bracelet another turn. “Yes. And no.”

“That’s helpful!”

“Sorry, Grendel, but that’s all there is.
Believe it or not, he doesn’t say much about it.”

He hit her with a sarcastic look, just the
edge of an eyebrow raised in exasperation. “Now pull the other,
Trainer.”

She snorted derisively. “Oh, sure, he’s got
all the right symptoms. Despite what you and Alex played with, he’s
still prime material.”