The Trainer (16 page)

But he was working with her at last. And
what was more, he had plenty of chances to interact with Tara, the
best trained and best looking slave in the house.

Tara was there to brush up on her
anticipatory skills—the priceless ability of a slave to know what
an owner would want and when, and deliver it on time and with as
little fuss as possible. Sometimes, it was as obvious as knowing
how long it took before someone’s coffee cup would need to be
refilled. Michael found himself counting drinks on different days,
noting that Chris took coffee more or less all day long as his
preferred beverage, and damn if there wasn’t always a pot on. Cups
seemed to follow him around the house, too, replaced—usually—when
he wasn’t looking. But when Tara served at the table, she learned
that Mike rarely drank more than one cup himself, and he never
found that he had to shake his head at her to refuse a refill.

It was how she knew when to give him more
that was a real puzzlement.

Anderson gave him a look at a typed-up
report on eating and drinking behaviors, and he found himself
reading it with his mouth open in astonishment. It included
descriptions of an assortment of dining styles ranging from fast
food to formal dinners, and the amount of time people spent in each
environment. It compared dinners in restaurants to private clubs to
homes. Then, it continued to detail things like how patrons caught
waiters’ attention in different countries, which verbal and hand
motion cues were used for things like simply summoning someone, and
how to ask for something in sign language.

“All this?” he’d said, flipping through the
hundred and forty pages. “To figure out that people spend more time
at the table at home than at McDonalds?”

“No—all that to show the difference between
laying your napkin on the chair and laying it on the side of the
plate. Or, between tasting something and never returning to it and
eating delicately of all the things offered. Between putting your
mug back close at hand, or further away from the table edge. Pay
attention, Michael. These are the things Tara has studied—and Joan
too, in case she is given the task of serving at the table one day.
Somewhere in here are the clues to why they will know that you
didn’t like the jerked chicken we had last night.” She raised an
eyebrow at him and he grinned.

“I thought I hid that pretty well,” he
admitted. “I mean, I’m sure it was great. But too spicy for
me.”

“Didn’t think it had much zip myself,” the
Trainer said with a shrug. “Vicente barely used the real hot stuff
I keep on hand. But Tara noticed you. Your reaction to it was right
out of this. Read it and summarize, please.”

Oh, well. But then, he reminded himself, it
was what he had wished for when he got there—clear instructions on
what to read and what to do. But it wasn’t exciting to read reports
on people’s eating habits. Why not just say, “If you don’t keep an
eye on things and bring stuff at the right time, you’ll be
punished!” At least then, you got to smack them around if they
didn’t get the fucking slippers to you or whatever. You needed
excuses to play with slaves, right? Otherwise, they’d get
sloppy.

But—apparently not. Tara didn’t seem to like
it when Chris was asked to punish her physically—and it was always
Chris who did it as far as Michael could tell. Sometimes, it was
over something small—a second of hesitation, a mislaid item like a
pen or a comb. Ten swats with that heavy leather strap of his, and
then back to work, not a thing said except for “thank you and I
won’t do it again,” all recited to some neat formula that Michael
hadn’t uncovered in his reading yet but was piecing together from
hearing the slaves say it.

But that was when Chris noticed something
wrong. Most of the time when Anderson noted an imperfection, she’d
just have the slaves do it again. And again. And again. She wasn’t
kidding when she’d said that only slaves got do-overs in her house!
No matter how silly it looked or how much time it took, she would
back the slave up and start them all over, whether it was in
something like carrying a tray or polishing a piece of silver or
kneeling a certain way or even answering an imaginary caller—a role
Michael played several times. A raised eyebrow or a disappointed
look or even that rare sharp gaze that Michael felt more often than
he suspected the slaves did—and both girls would look about ready
to throw themselves on the nearest sword in shame.

And if the Trainer sighed and called for
Chris—that was when the slaves would drop to their knees and beg
for forgiveness or mercy, even if it was just the same kind of
strapping they’d get from the man for doing the same mistake.

It was confusing to no end! What made it
different when Anderson made that move to call in her surrogate?
Was it the degree of the error? And why was that the trigger for
permission to beg for mercy? And what element made Anderson choose
to grant it or refuse it? Because she did actually seem to consider
it a genuine request—her responses were never an automatic yes or
no. Michael had always thought of begging for mercy as just some of
the more organized ways that slaves could make noise while you were
using or punishing them. But Anderson actually considered it—looked
at the client and thought about it, and delivered her verdict,
freeing them from the approaching short man with his strap, or
sending them off to take their medicine.

It was all just plain weird! As far as he
could tell, the Trainer only touched the clients to correct a
posture or in praise. She certainly didn’t grope them or stroke
them to arousal, or casually tweak delicate or sensitive parts of
their bodies. Parker did, occasionally—but always in a quiet and
subtle way, looking into their eyes until they blushed or squirmed,
or even touching them while his attention was elsewhere.

But neither Anderson nor Parker ever seemed
to take the girls to bed, as far as he could tell. Yes, Tara did
tell him that she had been fucked. But since that day, he had
realized that from time to time, Anderson received callers and saw
them privately. Then, she would either summon a client into her
office while her visitor was there, or allow the visitor to go off
in private with a slave for a period of time.

Some of these people were other trainers, he
was sure. He was rarely, if ever, introduced to them with more than
a name and a handshake. But if they were taking the girls off to
the slave bedroom at the back of the house and beating and screwing
them, there sure wasn’t any evidence of it. No one ever explained
what it was all about, and he never gathered up the courage to ask.
Somehow, he thought that someone should just tell him.

And of course all this wondering and
speculating did nothing to keep his horniness in check. If they
thought that a good trainer had to be celibate, man, did they have
the wrong guy! He couldn’t figure out why the hell Anderson would
not be using her own trainees—how else could you know how good they
were? What they needed to learn? Even if Joan wasn’t always going
to be used purely like a sex slave in her new position, it’s
possible she might be sometimes! What if some chubby-chaser guest
of her master wanted to lift her skirts and asked to borrow her?
Wouldn’t it make sense to make sure she knew how to show a guy a
good time?

And they knew that Tara would be sexually
used by her master, so why keep her from pleasuring at least one of
the two men here? Hell, whether Chris was gay or not, surely he
wouldn’t object to getting a blowjob every now and then. And as
much as the prospect of sharing her with Chris made him itchy,
sharing would be better than getting nothing. But if Chris really
was fucking her on the side, it certainly wasn’t for long periods
of time or showy extended erotic torture sessions; the man was too
damn busy! When he wasn’t writing or researching, he was out
running errands, or working with one or both of the girls, or even
helping Vicente in the kitchen from time to time. Anderson
occasionally curled up in her big chair with a book and a slice of
cake and hot tea, but if Parker did anything close to relaxing and
having a good time, it sure wasn’t in view of any of the people in
this house.

In fact, Michael himself had little time to
establish a social life outside the house, not with all this
reading and summarization. He jerked off more than he did when he
was a kid, before he discovered that girls would lie down for him
and guys would kneel. And he felt about as displeased with the
situation as he had been then.

But finally, Anderson began to use him as
more than the persistent caller who wanted to know why the master
hadn’t returned his calls, or the annoying employee or staff member
who harassed the hard-working slave. He got to do things like
follow Tara as she moved through the house for an entire day,
shadowing her, learning everything she needed to know, everything
she did, timing her, watching but never helping or interfering.
That was an astonishing day by itself—the sheer volume of
information she had about the few people in residence seemed
amazing, and the way she immediately prioritized and moved forward
on things was just... neat. He couldn’t imagine being able to look
at the big picture so quickly and know when it was time to set
aside the financial paperwork to pick up a package at the post
office and then return in time to help prepare and serve lunch,
finish the paperwork, stopping only for a basic review of some of
the rules of pool—which her owner apparently enjoyed—and then
managing to finish the work schedule by the end of the day without
a towel misplaced, a scrap of envelope on the floor, or a clatter
of dishes.

The more contact he had with her, the more
liberty he was given to touch her. He always made damn sure he knew
explicitly what he could do, and stayed well within his limits, no
matter how much his cock ached. Sure, a little teasing here, a
spanking there, maybe a little hair pulling and nipple twisting—but
he never took his dick out or did more than press it against
her.

Then, one morning, Anderson was very clear.
“From now on, think of Tara as a general purpose slave,” she
instructed. Tara, her face composed, took this as calmly as a
direction to use her as an assistant in a law library. But Michael
felt both a shiver of delight at the more-than-welcome permission
to act on these so vigorously controlled feelings. He nodded,
trying not to appear too eager.

“I want to know exactly how she responds—and
I want to see what her trainer would write, not what a young,
healthy sex partner would write. It’s up to you what you do—Tara
will tell you if you request something that her owner has
forbidden. Interviewing time must be taken into account, though, so
don’t be piggy, bucko. I’m going to cut down just a little bit on
her chore time in order to make her more available to you, and Joan
will be working more with Vicente in the kitchen and on the books.
You do not have to do anything more sexual than what you have
already done; I am more than willing to hear about how you might
explore any possible use within reason. But you do not need to ask
my permission anymore.” Anderson, dressed that morning in a long
black broomstick skirt, checked her watch as she made the
appropriate notations on the daily schedules and gave the top sheet
to Michael. “Any questions?” she asked after he had a moment to
scan it.

“Nope—all clear,” he replied cheerfully.

“Good. Then let’s make ourselves useful.”
She left as usual, with no particular warnings or
encouragement.

He turned to Tara and grinned. “Where are
the condoms?” was his first question.

“Upstairs, sir,” she answered softly. “May I
get one for you?”

“No—but you can get me—oh—six. Lubricated
and unlubed, okay?” It was such an effort to keep his tone even,
his body posture relaxed. Finally! He was singing inside. Finally,
we’re going to have a normal slave household here. He did pump one
fist into the air after she’d gone. He went out into the hallway to
watch her ascend the stairs, the curve of her butt, the flash of
her legs under the plain black dress. Maybe I’ll fuck her from
behind, he thought. Don’t even undress her, just slide the dress up
onto her hips and thrust directly into her, not even looking at
her. Oh, that was always a good way, to not even let them see you,
to not utter a word, just fuck, flip the dress back, and walk
away.

Wouldn’t that be a hell of a way to
interview her? he thought deliriously. He’d read of interviews
conducted while a slave was tied up, or when the trainer held a
riding crop to encourage quick or complete answers; why not one
where he would drive her crazy keeping her turned on and make her
answer questions while he was fucking her?

Or maybe make a bigger production of it?
Take her upstairs and give her a good spanking first, tie her
up—there’s got to be some rope around here. Give the occasion
something to remember it by. After all, she must be expecting
something new—or wait! Maybe the cold treatment would be
better—

Mulling over his options, he heard Joan in
the next room and crossed the hallway to see what she was doing.
She was not alone.

Chris was with her, moving with her, and for
a moment Michael thought they were dancing. Chris was standing
behind her, his hands covering hers, and he was leading her in a
movement that soon became a turn, and then a glide into a composed
posture, suitable for waiting for instructions. He let her go, and
then walked around her to adjust the posture, pushing her shoulders
a little back, inching her chin down just a bit more.

“That’s it,” he said, stepping back to look
at her. “Now, bring your head up, just high enough to make eye
contact—slowly, slowly—no, leave your hands at your sides.” Joan
did as he instructed, her fingers twitching slightly, and then
settling.