The Trainer (13 page)

She looked at him through demurely lowered
eyelashes. “Forgive my presumption, sir—I thought you had intended
to ask me about my service.”

“I did. That’s what’s so amazing.” He
watched her trim the edges of the last article she cut out, and
write a summary of the topic on the file card. Her handwriting was
very neat. “I guess I’ll get back to work here.”

The next interruption came about a half hour
later, with a request for two glasses of water to be taken upstairs
to water a plant at the end of the hallway, and then returned to
the kitchen. When Tara returned from that little errand, she was
naked and barefoot. Another blush, this one a little more obvious
than the first. Michael smiled, and knew why it seemed a little
warmer in the house that morning.

“What’s this about?” he asked teasingly.

“It is an order, sir,” she said. “Do you—do
you find it distracting?”

“Yeah, very. But not enough to change it.
Come over here and show yourself—this is the first time I’ve seen
you looking like a slave.”

“Yes, sir!” Carefully, she made her way
around the table to his side.

She showed her body to him. Raising her arms
up behind her head showed off her small breasts and lifted their
tight, pointy nipples up. What a delicious contrast to Joan’s
heavy, round globes! Her back straight, her legs parted, she was
like a pale statue, not so much toned as she flowed like silk
poured over a mannequin. And bent over—oh, yes, that perfect,
heart-shaped ass. Her flesh showed some light bruising, especially
right across the middle.

Michael whistled again and drew a finger
across the bruises. Her flesh rippled where he touched, like waves
of shivers—a nice effect. And she did the show postures very well,
too. But that was to be expected. Not only were they the first
moves taught to a Marketplace slave, but the procedure was
originally choreographed by Anderson.

Geoff preferred a different set of
movements—damn, he was doing it again! I have to stop comparing her
to Geoff, Michael promised himself. I have to stop thinking about
what used to be.

He straightened up and cupped Tara’s rear in
his hands. By touching her, he interrupted the smooth movements of
the series of display postures. She stayed still, betraying her
surprise with a little murmuring sound.

“Six days is a long time between screws,
isn’t it, Tara?”

“As you say, sir,” she replied. Her voice
sounded strange at that angle, muffled by her bent over posture,
tense with the unfamiliarity of the situation. Michael grinned and
smacked her on the left cheek, lightly.

“That’s a good stock answer; it’ll work with
most guests and one-time users. Now, pretend I’m the Judge. Tell me
the truth.”

“Please sir, I am very satisfied with my
use, sir!”

“So once every six days is good for
you?”

“Yes, sir!”

He tapped her thighs a little more apart and
slid one hand between her legs. Under a short layer of pubic
hair—another change from what he was used to—she was soft, and a
little wet, opening easily to his touch. He pinched one fold of her
labia, kneading it in his fingers, and listened to the soft moans
she made.

“Tell me who screwed you six days ago,” he
said, continuing to work her flesh.

“Please, sir, I’m forbidden to.”

Damn! Well, there was no need to try and go
further on that topic. If she was forbidden, then that was it—

But on the other hand, would an employee of
her master know that? He grinned and pulled her up by a fistful of
hair. She gasped as her body came up next to his. He pressed his
erection against her ass, letting her know what he was feeling,
perhaps what he was thinking. With the hand that used to be on her
sex, he reached around her to take hold of a nipple.

“You can tell me,” he crooned, falling
easily into a cajoling, seductive tone. He pulled her head back
onto his shoulder, and looked down at her body, now taut against
his. Her ass felt good against his groin, and he shifted her
comfortably. “Come on, who took you to bed? Was is Parker? Does he
have a great big dick?” He pinched the nipple, hard, and she arched
her back just a little, not exactly fighting him, but reacting
strongly just the same.

Oh, that was nice.

“Please, sir, I am not permitted to
tell!”

Firm, but with respect. Also damn good. And
what was that? Just a little wiggle in the butt, scraping against
him, so distracting, so appeasing! Damn, she was good!

“Was it Anderson?” he whispered into her
ear, stopping to nibble on the earlobe. He never let her go, only
shifted her body against his. “Did you go down on her like a good
girl? Did she finger you open, like I will?”

“I—I beg your pardon, sir—I may not answer
those—those questions! Ah!”

That nipple turned out to be perfect for
eliciting response. Just one sharp twist, and she stumbled over
words. Good, something can shake up that Anderson-trained
perfection. He turned her toward the table and bent her over the
edge.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said drawing both
hands across her ass again. “Maybe I shouldn’t be asking. Maybe I
should be doing.” If she had been told not to do anything sexual
with him, now would be the time to hear about it. Or, maybe he
could just do an extended teasing thing. Spank her a little, maybe
finger her. Get her hot. But leave the dick in the pants. Until he
was absolutely sure he could take that liberty. That would be the
safe way, he decided. “You’re just a slave,” he said out loud,
caressing her boldly. “I can do this whenever I want to, can’t
I?

“Yes, sir, as you wish!” She gave a little
moan as his fingers reached up between her legs again and casually
invaded her. So, he could screw her! Fantastic! Damn—if only he had
his training kit, with the stiff paddles and slender riding crops,
the clamps and clips, the heavy gags and the body-filling plugs!
But his instructions were to bring no fetish gear with him—and now,
all he had on hand were his hands and maybe some binder clips in
one of the desk drawers. No time for that. Not when there was this
enticing butt right in front of him, with a cute cunt right
underneath!

He swung his hands together and impacted on
her flesh with a heavy smack that made her body inch up on the
table. Her breath left her body all at once, and she cradled her
head in her arms, little whimpers escaping.

“Come on, push that sweet butt out to me,
that’s it,” Michael said, taking another swat. “This is what you’re
here for, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir!” She did as he instructed, rising
up on her toes in order to push her rear toward him and his
punishing hands. Watching as she tensed for another hard spank,
Michael smiled and trailed his fingers across her flesh instead,
curving down her buttocks to her thighs, where once again he
prodded until she adjusted her position to spread them wider.

Well, this was a nice change from the coolly
efficient bookkeeper image she normally presented! This was a
slave—a nicely turned out, eager-for-pleasure-or-pain slave.

The trick was to keep her on the edge until
just before Anderson returned, and then watch her as she collected
herself and got back to work. Yeah, he thought, as he continued to
fondle her. I can fuck her later. When I’m really, really sure I
can. But maybe, in this role as an employee, I’d just try to get
away with this light stuff.

He gasped as he realized the truth of that.
Of course, as an employee, he wouldn’t try to fuck his boss’s girl!
Especially if I knew that the boss fucked her! “This is a test for
you, too,” was more or less what Anderson had said. So even if Tara
didn’t tell him he couldn’t... would he? As part of this role
playing exercise? Snatching a glance at the wall clock, he stroked
her again, trailing his fingers through her soft pubic hair,
snaking his index finger gently along the slit. She moaned and
pressed softly back.

“Okay!” he said loudly, pulling away. He
smacked her ass hard and walked back to his place at the table.
“Guess we should be getting back to work here!”

She gasped and the color deepened in her
face. She waited until she rose to face him to say, softly, “Yes,
sir. Thank you for calling my attention to duty, sir.” Then, she
carefully went back to her own spot and picked up her papers. She
trembled slightly—but she didn’t collapse into a chair or take
great big gulping breaths. Instead, she marshaled her
composure—took measured breaths and looked studiously attentive
until she started to calm down. Then, she ran her fingers through
her mussed hair to smooth it down.

Anderson arrived a minute later. Perfect
timing. Michael congratulated himself on making the right
choice.

The exercise ran most of the day, and it was
a sweet torment for them both. By mid-afternoon, Michael was so
horny he felt ready to explode, but the excitement, the sheer
tension of concentrating on the mundane task, teasing Tara and
playing time games with Anderson was so exhilarating that he didn’t
much care. The Trainer caught him several times, walking in while
he had Tara bent over backward across the table, one hand at her
cleft, the fingers of his other hand easing in and out of her
pursed mouth. He coughed and let her go, but Anderson didn’t make
any comment. She just delivered her new task and left, Tara
following her. And when Tara did return, there were warm, pink
marks on her ass and shoulders. But still, she didn’t make any
official protest when Michael guided her onto his lap so he could
play with her nipples.

Well, this was more like it! When Anderson
came in at about 3:30, a clipboard in one hand, Michael was feeling
pretty damn pleased with himself. He had played his role very well,
and the opportunity to watch Tara at work was invaluable. He had
been very good about holding himself back. Surely, this had marked
the start of his real training.

“Time’s up,” Anderson announced as she
entered. “Mike, you’d be fired, but Tara did fairly well.”

He laughed. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want me
working for me!”

“Easily distracted,” Anderson agreed. “Tara,
get yourself cleaned up for the kitchen. Mike, you start working on
your impressions of the exercise. I’ll want to read them after
dinner.”

“After dinner, right.” Belatedly he stood,
cursing to himself after she left. Damn, how was he going to
remember to do that? Well, he had bigger problems to deal with. His
first homework assignment. Geoff hadn’t been real big on written
reports, but he audio and video taped everything.

Shit, there I go again, he thought, pushing
the leftovers from the day’s task to one side. I can’t help but
think of how we used to do things. It would be easier to be able to
switch the camera on and talk about what he’d seen, describe Tara’s
actions and responses with his hands and body moving, to
communicate with grins and raised eyebrows and all that body
language that was so important to Geoff. Body language—it was
another central idea about training, another key toward control and
behavior. It could reveal so much more than words could—but it
could mislead, too.

He picked up a yellow legal pad and wrote
the date and time at the top of the first page. The last time he
had filed a report on a slave had been the worst; it was hard to
get it out of his mind.

And Parker knew about it. Fuck and double
fuck.

Two years with Geoff, living, thinking and
breathing slavery. But it wasn’t his entire life—the Marketplace,
that is. There was still what he liked to call the secular SM world
out there, the places where people who didn’t live it all the time
went to hang out and share experiences and good times. On a planned
weekend away from work he had gone to Leather Forever, a three-day
conference put on by the International SM Activist Organization,
the group people called “Is-Mao,” like a bad old Communist joke.
God, what fun it was, to go and wander among all the people who
were inches away from folks who were actually living a lifestyle
that most of them dared not dream of.

Not that many of them would want it, he had
found out. Hell, kinky sex was easy enough to manage! You found out
what you were into, found a group of local people into the same
thing, and dated around until you found the partner who best suited
your fetish or paraphilia. You did the couple thing, sleeping
together, living together, getting married if you were het, maybe
doing the domestic partnership thing if you weren’t. You had the
box of toys under your bed or in the closet or the chiffonier, or
maybe you set up the second bedroom or the basement with
over-designed wooden crosses and frames. You bought the jacket, the
keychain, the deerskin whips, and the Japanese nipple clamps, and
you purchased white plumbers candles and lengths of rope and
chain.

But in the meantime, you still had that job
to go to, and that family that needed attention. You still watered
the lawn or went to the shareholders meeting, paid the bills,
played softball or pool, or watched Monday Night Football. No
matter who was on the bottom when you pulled out the toys and
played, you still watched TV, had your favorite shows, went to
movies, or to do some bowling, or ballroom dancing. You had fights
over family, money, the kids or lack of kids. You kissed and made
up. You had nice, gentle sex on Saturday mornings. You planned
vacations. You lived a real life—and had a secret pastime your
neighbors didn’t need to know about. If you were really an
exhibitionist, you went on television talk shows.

Who would want to screw something up like
that? It was better than what a lot of people had. At least you had
a context for those feelings of control or lack thereof. You could
get away from the boss by tying up the spouse. Forget the economy
while you’re tickling your lover’s ribs with a silky whip. Lose
yourself in a cocoon of Saran Wrap; much better than the bubble
bath women’s magazines were always suggesting as the cure-all for
stress.