The Trainer (39 page)

“Why not?”

“Because you wouldn’t accept it.”

Michael frowned. “How do you know that? I’ve
been accepting so far, haven’t I?”

“Yes—but can you do it for seven years?”
Chris turned and started up again, and Michael fell into stride
beside him. There was no talking while running, so Michael didn’t
get the answers to his burning questions until after breakfast.

“One year introductory training,” Chris
ticked off his fingers, “two years in service, two years managing
other slaves while remaining in service, one year in formal
apprenticeship to a master trainer, and one year as a journeyman
trainer.”

“Jesus Christ! Four years as a slave, just
to be a trainer?”

“Five years, depending on the temperament of
the master trainer. Anderson’s master trainer was that kind of a
man—his apprenticeships varied very little from a slave contract.”
Chris nodded admiringly. “Some trainers used to include a two-year
experience of owning a slave as well. You can see why hardly anyone
does it any more.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Yes, and no. I have never managed to do
things properly. But I have done everything, in one way or another.
Just—in the wrong order.” Chris looked a little uncomfortable
admitting this, but he seemed direct and truthful, and Mike was
more than a little bit flattered by it.

“When were you a slave?” he asked, pushing a
little.

“After I was an owner,” Chris said with a
grin. “Ages ago, eons. And don’t bother to ask where I was sold—the
Marketplace does accept non-traditional service arrangements as
part of their experience records, and I was in one.”

“Oh.” Damn, another dead end. No wonder he
wasn’t in the computer. “How come she didn’t start me as a classic
when I got here?”

“Because you didn’t show that you had any
potential. Not that you have much now, mind you. But re-starting
you like a classic means that you have the opportunity to take a
better look at what you’re doing. It gives you more time to figure
out where to go—it gives her more time to measure your
dedication.”

“I am dedicated!” Michael protested.

“You might be,” Chris admitted. “Let’s see
how much. You’re far too relaxed in posture and attitude. Get up
and present.”

Chris didn’t hit him—but every time Michael
got into a vulnerable position and braced himself, he could imagine
the sensation of each blow. He could feel Chris’s eyes sweeping his
form. That day, as he carefully arranged his body and thrust out
his ass in that humiliating posture designed to give an owner or
trainer a proper target to chastise, he could swear that he felt a
hand caress him. It sent shivers through his body, especially since
he could see Chris clearly out of the corner of his eye, too far
away to touch him.

* * * *

The weather was warm the night Michael
decided to take advantage of his time off and finally go to the
local men’s leather group. He had stayed away from the local ISMAO
Chapter, mostly because of the scary idea that somehow Karen had
spread the word about him through that organization. The Equivocal
Coalition had provided an evening or two of mild amusement, but
when he caught some attitude from the threatened male “doms,” he
decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. New York did have a few SM
clubs, like dance clubs, and he investigated them as well. But he
found them universally uncomfortable, either too large or too
small, hot and smoky or cold and noisy. He preferred to go dancing
instead, wearing his leather jeans and making out in the darkened
corners with boys or girls as the mood struck him.

But he missed the companionship of a room
full of people who understood the lure of leathersex, the passion
of power. Dealing with the new and complex realities at the
Anderson house had not dampened his excitement at all—in fact, it
seemed to have heightened it. The dreams and waking fantasies were
symptoms, he had decided, of a need to go out and have some fun.
This time, he would know when to stop. This time, he was in
control. He had picked up a calendar of events at the local Gay
Communal Association, and found a listing for the Gay Men’s Leather
Association. They had weeknight seminars and discussion groups,
plus an occasional play event at one of the public clubs. It seemed
worth checking out. At the very least, he could get some
information about where the best pick-up places were.

He dressed carefully, knowing how important
image was in a group of men. The leather jeans and boots, of
course. A chain wrapped around the left boot provided an
eye-catcher and a possible collar for some temporary companion.
Black shirt, leather vest with run pins, and a black hanky tucked
into his left rear pocket. He hung his keys left also, after he
worked the wide belt through the loops in the pants. He threw his
cover into a bag along with some rope, a few condoms, and some
lube. No sense wearing the thing on the subway. New Yorkers didn’t
look twice at someone dressed in black. But the cap with the chrome
brim was a bit much for Brooklyn. He’d put it on when he got
downtown.

He had already told Anderson and Chris that
he was off to the city that night. Anderson didn’t need him—she was
doing a private session with Joan. Chris was upstairs doing
something by himself while Lorens and Vic were laughing in the
kitchen. The sense of freedom that swept him as he walked to the
subway was overwhelming. Maybe I have been working a little too
hard, he thought. Well, not too hard, but more intensely than I’m
used to. That’s where all these bottoming dreams are coming in; I’m
feeling like I’m being stepped on. I need a little vacation.

The evening at the men’s organization was
pretty typical. There were about forty men there, some in full
leather dress, most in jeans or work clothes. Michael was heavily
cruised, and he returned the compliments, eyeing possible
candidates left and right and swapping meaningful glances and firm
handshakes accompanied by lingering gazes at crotch level. God, it
was fun to play with the boys. Much easier than courting women,
that was for sure.

The topic was something about playing with
fire, and a demonstration involved swiping someone with alcohol,
setting the alcohol on fire and manipulating flames on their skin.
It was fun—Michael had done it a few times in the past. Very
impressive, especially for people who didn’t realize that the speed
in which the flames are moved and smothered prevented anything more
than first degree burns, and then only after repeated dousings.
Michael had never heard of any Marketplace owner doing that with
their slaves. Maybe it was considered too esoteric. He decided to
ask Anderson if she had. Maybe she would let him try it on Lorens.
That would be a sight.

After the demonstration and the obligatory
question and answer period, Michael stayed a while and flirted and
introduced himself as a visitor from California. He could sense a
little attitude coming from the older men; he wrote it off as
jealousy. He knew he looked sharp and the admiring glances of the
other men confirmed his knowledge. He also knew that older tops
tended to resent the younger ones. It was that old guard stuff
again. And he also knew that strangers were always threatening—you
never knew where they came from, how they played, whether they were
going to take you home and commit atrocities on your corpse,
becoming the headline in the next day’s tabloid. Or at least get
you so drunk that you get tattooed with a bull’s head surrounded by
a wreath of roses.

As the evening drew to a close, Michael
shuffled through the come-ons and offers to find the genuine ones.
He was left with two possibilities—going home with one guy about
his age, who looked like he would be a good lay, or heading off to
a bar with a couple who looked much more than merely interesting.
He’d never been with two guys before. That might be fun. And Dave,
the topman in the couple, seemed like a hot guy himself—maybe they
could both do the bottom, whose name also happened to be Mike, and
then kinda get into each other.

The bar they took him to was called The
Shaft, and it was buried in the recesses of the meat-packing
district, not far from one of the clubs Michael had investigated
earlier. There was no cover charge, and the music was techno/dance,
and beers were cold and served up by bare-chested men in leather
shorts. The place was not quite as crowded as it would be on
Saturday night, but it was a hell of a serious crowd for a
weeknight. Michael bought the first round and hoped they wouldn’t
stay too long. Not only was he going to run out of money soon, but
he was seriously horny.

They showed him around, taking him on a
quick tour of the bar, introducing him to a few of the regulars,
and then settling at one back wall with their beers. Mike the
bottom knelt next to Dave, and drank from Dave’s bottle. Michael
enjoyed it, flirting with Dave while his slave was alone on the
hard floor, seemingly ignored. It was part of the game—part of the
fun. Michael imagined their interaction later in. Would he get to
fuck Mike’s mouth, or ass, or both? Would the two tops take him at
the same time, fucking both ends at once, forcing sounds of lust
and pain from him?

“Hey, look over there—that’s the guy who
brought us out,” Dave said suddenly. “That’s Ron.”

Michael turned to see a tall, well built man
in jeans, chaps, a black T-shirt and vest. There was an understated
simplicity about him—no chest harness, no chains, no gauntlets or
whips—even his cover was plain, lacking the chrome brim that
Michael’s sported. He looked to be in his forties or so, although
it was kind of hard to tell. His hair was black—he looked every
inch an old-time leatherman.

Their eyes followed him as he walked through
the crowd and threw his arms around a shorter man standing by the
pool table. Michael felt a little weak in the knees for a moment.
It couldn’t be! But another look and a shift in position gave him a
better view. The shorter man, the one with the cute butt framed by
his own pair of chaps, was Chris Parker.

Dave was asking him a question. It was
drowned out by the thumping of the music or the pounding of his
heart.

“Are you all right?” Dave asked again.

“Uh—yeah. It’s just—I know Ron’s
boyfriend!”

“Well, what do you know? I tell you, the
community gets smaller every year. Why don’t you go over and say
hello? I’ll send my boy to get us more drinks.”

“Uh—” Michael caught himself quickly. Should
he have admitted to recognizing Chris? Damn, that wasn’t proper!
But Dave caught his hesitation and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen—you go over if you want. The boy’s
going for drinks. If you want to socialize, we can come over after
you say hello. Okay?”

Michael blessed the man for his tact and
thanked him verbally. And then he started to make his way through
the crowd. His curiosity was too much to bear—what on earth was
Chris doing with a soft world topman? And just look at how Chris
was dressed! Michael took in the chaps and jeans, T-shirt and vest,
and realized that Ron and Chris were dressed pretty much
identically. He also realized that this was the first time he had
ever seen Chris in short sleeves, let alone in leather. It was a
strange mixture of emotions and thoughts brewing inside of him as
he approached them. It was definitely amusing to have caught Chris
slumming.

Chris caught sight of him as soon as he was
in view and damn near did a double take. Then, he laughed, one hand
crossing his abdomen, and said something to Ron, who glanced over
his shoulder. It must be okay to approach then, Michael thought. He
came forward and half waved. “Hey, boss,” he said.

“That is Michael,” Chris was saying.

Ron had been smiling as he turned, but as
soon as he saw Michael, his eyes narrowed. Michael was about to
extend his hand for a shake and an introduction, when he saw a blur
of darkness cross in front of his face. Not again, he thought,
ready to retreat. But the hand never hit him. He felt his cap take
the impact, and heard it hit the floor a few paces away.
Conversation dipped a little in their vicinity, and a few men
raised questioning eyes over long necked bottles.

Michael looked into the eyes of the man he
had never met before and asked, hotly, “Why the hell did you do
that?”

“Bad enough you come out in unearned
leather, boy,” Ron growled. “But you don’t wear a cover in front of
your teacher!”

Two men standing off to the side made “ooo”
sounds and turned away with soft laughs. Most of the younger men
ignored the scene entirely.

Michael tensed, and started to prepare a
retort, but stopped himself and took a deep breath. He glanced at
Chris, who had leaned one hip against an old fifty-five gallon
drum, and was eyeing him with interest. Michael looked back at Ron
and nodded. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry. Uh—do you mind if
I go get it?”

“No, it’s okay. But don’t put it on in here
until you earn it.” Ron turned back to Chris and Michael fought off
the growing blush that crept up his collar as he chased after the
hat. He bent down to pick it up, and someone said, “Better tuck
those keys too, boy!” He looked around to see who had spoke, and a
gray-bearded man in an ancient motorcycle jacket met his eyes.
Michael picked up the cap and unhooked the keys from his belt loop.
He shoved them in his pocket and rammed the hanky further down into
the back pocket as well. He got a nod of approval and returned to
Ron and Chris. He was shaking.

What the fuck am I doing, he asked himself,
trying to control the trembling. I am not a bottom! But he stopped
at the correct distance away from the pair and waited for Chris to
acknowledge him before he stepped closer. For a moment, he thought
he was seeing things—what were those lines on Chris’s arms? He
focused his gaze and realized that Chris had tattoos—damn, tattoos,
on his forearms! They looked like swirls of some kind—snakes maybe,
or vines. What do you know—under that corporate exterior, the guy
had tats. He wished suddenly that he had decided to wear a T-shirt,
too. It was goddamn hot in the bar—so hot that he was already
dripping with sweat.