The Trainer (19 page)

“Many do,” laughed Emil, his eyes twinkling
over his tea cup. “I would say that for everyone who writes to her
and begs to enter training here, there are ten who are thankful
they never have to submit to such an old-fashioned training style
as hers. But aside from what you have heard why others come here,
why did you?”

“To learn from the best,” Michael answered
smoothly. “I want to be a master trainer.”

“Do you? Another rarity! And why undertake
that particular goal?”

Michael hesitated. Why not? was his first
instinctive response. Why not be the best of the best?

“Training other trainers is a very time
consuming and often frustrating profession,” Emil said
thoughtfully. “It is rare to see it as a goal set above the
training of slaves.”

Suddenly, Michael understood what the doctor
meant, and he started to blush. Emil nodded slightly and smiled.
“Ah—perhaps the term master trainer means something else in the
house you first trained in?”

“I didn’t know,” Michael admitted honestly.
“I mean, we never used the term. I just thought it meant—I don’t
know. A better trainer. The best kind of trainer or something.”

“So it does, in terms of the demands of the
training regimen. But you hadn’t told Anderson of this ambition,
because she would have corrected you. Why hide it?”

Because I seem like a major fuck-up around
here, Michael thought ruefully. “I guess I thought it would be
better to tackle things one step at a time.”

“Yes, that’s always a good idea,” Emil
agreed. “And now, you are spared a minor correction, aren’t you?
So, it worked out for the best.”

Michael brightened. “Yeah, I guess it did.
You know, sometimes, it seems that learning by mistakes is a big
way to teach around here. It wasn’t like that at Geoff’s.”

“And yet Mr. Negel’s avant garde style was
not the best for you?”

“Oh, it was fine. But... I don’t know.
Sometimes, I would just wonder if there was more than what we were
doing.”

“There is always more, Michael,” Emil said.
“May I call you Michael? Thank you; please call me Emil. But as I
was saying... more is not necessarily better. Also, what is best
for one man might not suit another, in any endeavor.” He put his
cup down and crossed his legs comfortably. “I find slave trainers
to be fascinating people, especially those who, like you, knew that
this was the best profession for them. I do hope you forgive my
curiosity, but to find an intelligent young man poised at the start
of the most rigorous instruction offered here in North America,
someone with experience in a vastly different style—this is a
wonderful opportunity for me.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Michael assured the older
man. He liked this doctor. He had a warm, engaging voice and...
and... he was just the nicest person Michael had run into since he
had left California. The first one who seemed genuinely interested
in him, the first one who acknowledged how much damn work it took
to get here, and how hard it was to try to follow along this
bizarre teaching style.

But could he trust him? Maybe if he actually
said anything bad about training, this guy would turn right around
and tell Anderson. As Michael was pondering this, Emil cocked his
head to one side, and asked, “Tell me, Michael, if you don’t
mind—how did you find the Marketplace?”

That was certainly a safe story. Michael
told him about his Uncle and the beach house and the two slaves
there, and how he met Geoff, and gradually, their conversation
warmed and deepened along with the afternoon shadows. Michael
barely noticed how easily Joan kept them supplied with tea and then
cleared it all away; he was too engaged in this fascinating and
kind man who seemed to be so flatteringly interested in his life
and opinions. He even got to explain some of his own theories after
a while, and the doctor nodded and encouraged him to elaborate and
didn’t look scornful or doubting, just thoughtful.

“See, I think when you show them too much
attention in a positive way, they get to expect it all the time,”
he said at one point. “Punishment should be the main attention they
get, to remind them that their place is to serve you, and that the
minute they screw up, they can get flipped and whacked. And that
way, they’ll be grateful when you praise them or do something they
like, instead of expect it.”

“But if punishment—which is merely negative
attention, after all—becomes more frequent than rewards, don’t you
think this will only serve to encourage bad behavior, since it will
guarantee attention of some degree?” Emil leaned forward slightly
when he asked questions, his whole body seemingly involved in
hearing the answers.

“But that’s what they’re there for,” Michael
insisted. “If they wanted to clean house and get fu—I mean, have
sex, then they can do that in any normal marriage. The women, I
mean. I think they’re slaves because they want to be punished.”

“How interesting,” Emil mused. “And do you
find punishing slaves to be enjoyable, or merely a training task?
Do you ever feel regretful for it?”

“What’s there to regret?” Michael asked.
“Punishing someone is hot! That’s why I love being a trainer. Back
in Santa Cruz, we spent all our time either teaching the slaves how
to do stuff, punishing them when they did it wrong, and—well—using
them for our pleasure. It couldn’t get better than that!”

“No, I suppose not,” Emil genially
agreed.

“I don’t know whether it would be as
exciting to do it over and over again with the same person, though.
So, for me, it’s best that I see a slave for a short period of
time. I get my fun while I’m teaching them what to do, and I never
get bored or frustrated with a slave that won’t shape up.” Michael
leaned back, crossing one leg over his knee. “I’m the kind of guy
who likes a little variety in his life.”

“I understand that, certainly. I have to
admit that in my old age, I am more appreciative of stability and
predictability than I was when I was a younger man.”

“Oh, I understand that too,” said Michael,
who didn’t. “So... how long have you and Dr. Mueller been
together?”

“Not terribly long,” the man admitted.
“Perhaps four years. But she suits me perfectly.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s great! Are you in the
market for a new slave or something?”

For a second, the older man looked
surprised, almost affronted, and Michael wondered what he had said
wrong. But then, he just smiled slightly and shook his head. “I’m
quite content with the one I have,” he said gently. “Although, I
will admit that if I were, this would be the house I would come
to.”

“So... is the slave you own an Anderson
slave?”

Emil nodded. Michael wondered why they were
there, if they didn’t need a new one, but didn’t probe further.
Instead, he allowed Emil to return to questioning him for a
while.

The door across the hallway opened and
Anderson stepped out, and Michael found that Emil apparently
thought it was correct to rise when she entered as well. She smiled
at both of them and said, “Well, we’re done in here, Emil. Will you
stay for dinner?”

“It would be an honor and a pleasure,” the
gentleman said smoothly. “But unless you have further business with
me, I think I should like to go home this evening.”

“Five minutes, then.” She moved aside to
allow Greta to pass her, and Emil turned to Michael and nodded his
head.

“Please excuse me, Michael. It has been a
pleasure having this discussion with you.” And with that, he
vanished into the Trainer’s study, leaving Dr. Greta Mueller with
Michael, who instantly felt a strange surge of excitement as he
looked at her. But just as he was about to open his mouth to invite
her in to sit, he heard the key in the front door, and the heavy
latches turning.

Joan passed him like a ghost—only able to do
it because he was standing there like a deer caught in
headlights—and made it into the front hallway in time to remove
Chris’s leather jacket. Michael cursed his luck as he belatedly
motioned for Greta to enter the front sitting room, which she did
with a slight smile and a nod much reminiscent of her...
husband’s?

“Greta! What a surprise,” said Chris as he
came in. Tara was following him, with a new hairstyle, and a
slightly flushed look on her face. Michael frowned when he saw her,
comparing her to the more composed and elegant Greta and wondering
how he could have ever confused them.

“Hello, Chris,” Greta said. And to Michael’s
shock, she curtsied, like a slave.

He felt a little off balance, as his ears
continued to hear the two of them speak, but for some reason, their
words made no sense. Tara and Joan vanished into the back of the
house toward the kitchen as Chris came into the front room and
continued speaking with Greta.

Greta the slave?

“—Master is in the study with the Trainer
right now,” she was saying. “He will be glad to see you before we
leave.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see the both of
you,” Chris answered. He looked over at Michael, who was still
standing awkwardly between the chairs. “I see you’ve met the new
student here, Mr. Michael LaGuardia.”

“Yes, we were introduced before,” Greta said
with a smile.

But you didn’t curtsey to me, Michael
thought in a sudden flash of annoyance. And why was he still
standing, anyway? He nodded curtly and said, “I have some stuff to
do upstairs. Excuse me.” He felt Chris’s eyes on him as he passed
them, and heard Chris inviting Greta to come in and sit down for a
minute, and he almost stumbled on the steps in his haste to get out
of there.

He felt furious, but didn’t quite know why.
So, he didn’t realize that she was a slave. That was possible!
Hell, Geoff trained slaves to be able to act like girlfriends and
lovers or spouses, or house guests, or whatever their owner might
want them to behave like in public! And it wasn’t required for
owners to identify their slaves to anyone else—even to Marketplace
people. And it wasn’t as though they gave him any clues—she had her
coat taken just like her master’s, and he never called her anything
but Greta, and the Trainer even put an arm around her shoulders
like an old friend.

And she didn’t act like a slave! She didn’t
hang in the background, keeping quiet...

Or, did she?

Michael sat down on the edge of his bed and
tried to think about it. She did hang back, only moving when she
was acknowledged. But—he’d barely had a minute to see that and then
she was gone. Yet he still felt that somehow, he had been fooled—or
made a fool of. His journal was laying on the nightstand, but he
felt no desire to write about this afternoon, and was suddenly glad
that these guests weren’t staying for dinner, even though that
might have been a remarkable oddity and a potential diversion from
the same-old, same-old.

They left while he sulked in his room. He
would have gone downstairs to get Tara for some abuse and maybe
some interview time, but he didn’t want to run into them, so he
stayed until he heard the front door closing again, and then went
down for dinner. No one commented upon his absence.

But when the meal was over, Anderson looked
across the table at him and asked, “What did you think of Dr.
Kaufmann?”

“Great guy,” he said. “I liked him a lot. He
seems very interesting.”

“What about him do you find
interesting?”

Michael stared for a moment and gathered his
thoughts. What an odd question! “Well—he’s very nice,” he said
quickly. “Old-fashioned and polite. Smart. He’s a good guy to talk
with, easygoing, friendly.” Unlike my current company, he thought,
as he caught Chris looking at him. But he continued, “I just found
him really easy to talk to.”

“You should. He’s been getting people to
talk to him for many years now,” Anderson said with a slight
smile.

Michael cocked his head in confusion. “What
do you mean?”

“Tell me,” she said, instead of answering
him, “what you learned about Emil today.”

“He’s rich,” Michael stated firmly. There
was no doubt about that. She shrugged in response.

“That depends on how you define rich, I
suppose,” she said. “Emil won’t ever go hungry, that’s for sure.
What else?”

“Well... he’s an owner. Of one slave. And
he’s not in the market for another one. That he and Greta—Dr.
Mueller—have been together for four years.” Think, Mike, think, he
coached himself. What else did he tell me?

“What kind of a doctor is he?” Anderson
asked.

“I—I never asked,” he said.

Chris lowered his head for a moment, and
Michael didn’t hear a sigh, but knew that one was being held back
anyway.

“You didn’t ask me to interview him,”
Michael said instantly, looking at Anderson. “I mean, it would have
been rude to just start asking questions of one of your friends,
wouldn’t it?”

“Did you think it was rude when he did that
to you?” she asked.

“What?”

“You were interviewed,” Anderson said. Chris
lifted his head to look at her, but she kept her gaze on Michael.
“Emil is a psychologist, specializing in Marketplace personnel,
especially clients.”

Michael felt his anger build, coupled with
embarrassment. He glanced at Chris, but the other man had turned
his attention toward the kitchen, and Michael could see the door
swing shut.

Oh, no, wouldn’t want the slaves to see
this, he thought bitterly. He had to force himself to sit still,
try to keep his face neutral, even though he wanted to snap, and
slam his hand against the table. “Why?” he asked.

“Excellent!” Anderson said. “Good control,
Michael. I want to see more of that, although your frustration is
as clear as a window to anyone looking at you. As for your
question—I didn’t answer it before, and I won’t answer it now. I
suggest you come up with some theories yourself, and we can discuss
them later. In the meantime,” she rose and the two men rose with
her, “I want Tara in the study, and Joan is to have a little free
time for being such a good girl today. Send Tara to me with some
dessert.”