The Trainer
Authors: Laura Antoniou
Tags: #luster editions, #submission, #slave training, #bisexual, #chris parker, #circlet, #bisexuality, #slavery, #luster edition, #laura antoniou, #Adult, #bdsm, #erotic slavery, #trans, #dominance, #erotic slavehood
Book Three of the Marketplace Series
An Imprint of Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
The Trainer by Laura Antoniou
Copyright © 2011 by Laura Antoniou
An earlier edition was published by
Masquerade Books in 1995 and a second edition by Mystic Rose Books
in 2001.
First Luster Editions release July 2011
ISBN 978-1-61390-024-6
Cover
Photography and Art Direction by Lochai Stine
http://lochaistine.com
Stylist: Janice Stine
Models: Through-a-Window, Bella, Green Eyed
Devil, Emily
With special thanks to Glenda Ryder of The
Play House in Baltimore for use of her wonderful playroom for the
photo shoot.
Published by Luster Editions, an imprint
of
Circlet Press, Inc.
39 Hurlbut Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
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For Kate, Mike, Sky, Billy, Jack and the many
who inspired,
educated and provoked me over the years.
Introduction
In the hierarchy of positions within the
Marketplace, there is no role as vital as that of the responsible
trainer.
The extraordinary trainer will at once be a
pedagogue, a parent, an exacting employer, a model employee, and a
drill sergeant. The skills needed to even approach a professional
level of ability are rare.
We have found that there are certain types
of individuals uniquely suited to the vocation, and may in fact
feel a calling to it. Our challenge is in how to take that
inspiration, that drive, and hone it to razor sharpness, in effect
training the trainer, so that the results of their work will
improve the stock of clientele.
By reading this document, you are being
admitted to this circle. Do not take your training lightly; your
success here will reflect on your professional life for the rest of
your career with the Marketplace.
Be honest, and true. Never forget that you
are the linchpin upon which the entire Marketplace swings; from bad
trainers comes bad merchandise, which creates a chain of corruption
and disruption which may influence the Market for years to come. Be
ruthless in your drive for the unachievable, patient in your need
for recognition, and loyal to the school in which you were
taught.
And above all, seek personal control in all
things. Your actions, emotions and very thoughts will be marking
the merchandise whether you will it or not. You must be more
disciplined than your clients, controlling anger, doubt, lust,
humor, frustration, and love.
You will love them, probably all of them.
That is part of your talent, and should be expected and
cultivated.
But there is no figure more tragic than a
trainer who falls in love with a client.
One
Brooklyn, New York January
It was nearing the end of another mild
winter. The skies were rippled gray silk, streaks of sunlight
shining through only in the middle of the day, peeking out and then
rushing to set again. No snow, and very little frost, but that
particular kind of city climate that settles over the coast for a
season and lifts so gradually that the spring seems to arrive
almost by surprise.
The row of brownstones was lit with the
scattered bands of light from street lamps shining through twisted,
barren tree branches, a spooky but oddly pleasant effect. Michael
stepped out of the cab and shivered slightly. He had checked his
letter of instructions in the car as they drove down the Grand
Central Parkway from the airport that bore his name. He had smiled
when he received the ticket just a few weeks ago. Now, as he took a
deep breath and checked the address again, his smile broadened.
He heard the cab driver hauling bags out of
the trunk, but walked up the five steps to the glass-paneled front
door and rang the bell. It took a few moments for him to hear
responding footsteps inside, and he was half turning to the cabby
to tell him to bring the bags closer to the door when the sound of
a lock being undone interrupted him. He took a quick glance and
snapped his fingers.
“Hey, took you long enough,” he said. “I’m
LaGuardia, Anderson is expecting me.” Michael waved absently over
one shoulder to indicate the tasks which awaited on the pavement
and pushed past the undersized fellow who had opened the door.
At last! Stepping through a small hallway,
he turned to the left and found a perfect urban oasis, a warm,
comfortable sitting room with a large bay window and a heavy
fireplace, now dark. Muted colors met his gaze, dark woods and
shadowed burgundy, indirect light from other rooms flowing across
an ancient, ornate carpet. Soft music was playing in the
background—Vivaldi, also perfect—and the wide doorway through the
sitting room led to a formal dining room. Very classy. Just like he
imagined.
Like magic, as soon as he was in the room,
another slave appeared; this one a charming little bundle, her
russet hair drawn up into a bun, dressed in a formal maid’s uniform
with a pristine apron tied around her. She was round and plump,
with heavy breasts and a rosy cheeked face; definitely not what he
was used to, although she did have a beautiful smile. She curtsied
at once, a very nice one indeed, understated yet satisfyingly
obvious at the same time. He recalled that the twit on door duty
didn’t make a similar gesture, and reminded himself to make sure
that Anderson found out.
“I’m Michael LaGuardia, is Ms. Anderson
available?”
“Yes, Mr. LaGuardia, I’ll fetch her at once.
May I take your coat?” She was poised on the balls of her feet,
ready to approach him or take off to fetch her mistress, yet
displaying no hint of expectation. Her voice showed strong traces
of a British accent. Michael sighed in pleasure; this was going to
be fantastic! He started to shrug the raincoat off, and she caught
it from his shoulders with a touch so light he thought it had grown
wings and lifted of its own accord.
She swept it away, and left the room
quietly, and Michael stretched out and looked around. From the
door, he could hear the cabby thanking the doorman; at least he
knew how to tip. Michael’s luggage was poking inside the sitting
room entranceway now, and as the doorman stepped back to close the
door, Michael raised his voice.
“You can take those things to my room.”
There was no response, and Michael started to move forward to give
the guy a good smack. Establish dominance and authority early, that
was the key! But he stopped himself, and held still. Maybe the
doorman was under instructions not to speak? It would probably be
inappropriate to start off his training by hitting a slave who
didn’t really deserve it. Just as he decided to ignore him, the
doorman stepped into view and casually leaned against the inside of
the entranceway. He examined Michael with a look of studious
curiosity.
This was not silence. It was sheer
insolence.
“I don’t know if you understood who I am,”
Michael said, rubbing his right knuckles. “I’m the new trainer
here.”
“Are you?” He adjusted the steel-rimmed
glasses on his nose and examined Michael again. “Oh, I beg your
pardon, sir.” And he straightened his posture a little bit,
smoothing down the suit jacket and tightening the tie.
Oh, he’s itching for a beating, Michael
thought, controlling a grin. Man, he’s aching to be taken down.
“I’m not that easy to provoke—boy,” Michael
stated firmly. No sense in letting the squirt get an upper hand, no
way.
“That’s quite a relief, sir. Since that is
the case, you may carry your own damn bags upstairs.” One small
hand pointed to the staircase, and the man actually started to walk
into the room, intending to pass Michael on his right.
There was a second or three when Michael
wondered if he had heard right—surely no one would speak to him
that way in Anderson’s house! But as his hand shot up
instinctively, Michael got the second major surprise of his
evening. For the smaller man moved quickly, and even as Michael’s
arm swung in an arc meant to deliver a classic disciplinary slap,
one arm moved up to intercept it. Michael felt his wrist hitting
what seemed to be a steel post, followed by the disorienting
sensation of being pushed back a step.
His mouth dropped open in astonishment even
as he lost his balance and fell backward, awkwardly, into a large
wingbacked chair.
“So, this is our new pupil,” came a woman’s
voice from the direction of the dining room.
Michael turned his head and saw the mistress
of the house and staggered to his feet. Blood rushed to and then
from his face. He opened his mouth once to catch a breath and tried
to gather himself. “Anderson—I’m—”
“Michael LaGuardia, I know. What I don’t
know is why you would possibly have the temerity to strike someone
in my house without my permission.”
She was tall, as oddly tall as her doorman
was short. She was no longer a young woman, silver streaks running
through her almost waist-length black hair, all bound behind her at
the nape of her long neck. Standing in the doorway, she seemed all
angles and lines, a hard, horsy woman who would have looked natural
in the dusty plains of Kansas or in the hills of Arizona. Her voice
was low and hoarse, her rhythm of words strong and direct, with the
slightest of twangs.
She was everything he had imagined she
was—except maybe a little bit older. Well, a lot older. She looked
at least fifty-five. He swallowed and gave her a terse
acknowledging nod with what he judged to be the proper
deference.
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Anderson. I thought
your boy here was challenging me.”
“Really?” She turned slightly to look at the
doorman, who was busy straightening the sleeve of his jacket.
Michael didn’t catch any meaning in the looks they traded, and
started to feel very, very wary.