The Trainer (25 page)

Anderson stared at him for a moment, and
then laughed out loud. “Excuse me? Mister, I trained you! I watched
you change—in more ways than one! Chris, I could have put you on
the block years ago, and not as a novice, either. If I put you up
today, I could easily say you were my crowning achievement. Perfect
control, perfect obedience, and pretty hot in the sack to boot.

“With these new muscles of yours, you’d look
beautiful up there—and fetch a very respectable price, too. More
than enough for your purposes, certainly. You’re not common, no.
You’d be pretty unique, and that would gain some attention that I
know you’d rather not have. But your old fears don’t apply any
more. You’ve added to your basic value in a way that Grendel
frankly called priceless. So, if that’s what you want, let’s not
chase the colt around the field; let’s just do it.”

“And then what? Who do you think will bid
for me, Trainer? And for what purpose?” He rubbed his chest and
looked frustrated; he jerked his hand down and held onto the chair
arm again. “You tell me. What would any potential owner want from
me?”

Anderson nodded. “Okay. Now we’re talking
about it like adults.”

“All I can be now is a trainer! There’s just
no way around it. I’m not priceless because of my obedience or my
responses or my attitude...” He paused and looked down at himself,
running one hand down his torso. “Or my body,” he added bitterly.
“Hell, I’m not even valuable in the one service skill I was trained
in. I only have value because of what I offer professionally as a
trainer. Or, as a... curiosity. A trophy. If I go back to Alex and
Grendel, at least I can pretend—” He broke off, and hit the chair
again.

“Oh, and that will solve everything, won’t
it, Chris?“

“I hate you, Imala. Have I ever told you
that?” He looked up at her, challenging.

Anderson laid a finger on her chin,
thinking. “Why, as a matter of fact, I do recall your muttering
something like that way back when you were doing something
involving a kitchen floor and a toothbrush.”

They gazed at each other. Tension began to
shift, and slowly, he relaxed, throwing his arms over the edges of
the chair and sinking back into the pillows. “Now, how the hell did
you hear that?” he asked, amusement in his voice. “I thought you
were asleep.”

“Seeing through walls, reading
minds—nothing, compared to my parabolic hearing. What was it you
said? ‘I hate this fucking place, I hate that fucking bitch,’ I
think it was.”

“You know, little Golden Butt could benefit
from some of your super powers. You should hear what he’s
muttering.”

“We’re not talking about him, Parker, we’re
talking about you.”

He looked back at her, seriously. “Tell me
what to do, Trainer. Please.”

“I won’t. You don’t want to hear what I want
you to do. And you know I need you to make the correct choice
yourself, or stay right where you are until you do. At least here,
you’re doing what I want.”

“Then—I can’t decide. Not yet.”

“Okay. I’ll call Grendel tomorrow and tell
him that his offer is being considered.”

“Fine.”

“Fine. And if you’re ready to stop beating
up on that poor chair, why don’t you show me the finished
project?”

Chris touched his chest thoughtfully. “It
was a little messy tonight. The bandages will be on for a few days.
I’ll show you as soon as they come off.”

“All right, I’ll wait. But I do want to see
it. For now, come on over here and work off some of that excess
energy on my shoulders. Tara and Joan are just not strong enough to
do it right.”

He got up at once and started rubbing his
hands together. “Why don’t you ask Mikey? I’m sure he does a divine
massage.”

“Why don’t you keep your mouth shut and your
hands moving, wise ass?”

He came up behind her and placed his hands
on her shoulders. But before he began, he bent down and kissed her
lightly on the cheek. “I’m very sorry I’m such a pain, Trainer. You
are better to me than I deserve.”

She smiled and turned slightly to give him
one back. “Damn, this beard is scratchy. What would you do if I
told you I didn’t like it?”

“The razor is upstairs.”

“Ah, you’re a good boy.”

“I try, Trainer, I try.”

It seemed barely possible, but the time had
come to say goodbye to Tara. Michael felt strange about it—for four
weeks, he had participated in her training, but he didn’t feel he
knew her at all. Anderson never invited him to her private
interview sessions with her, and Michael was always bad at
extracting deep information out of a file. He did manage to get
some details about her life out of her, but not the in-depth level
of knowledge that a trainer of Anderson’s caliber habitually sought
with their client. He went back over his notes from the few
interviews he did manage to remember to schedule, but realized that
there was little he could say about her life before the
Marketplace, or what her true personality was like, or even how
many owners she had. The book on interviewing techniques had
offered dozens of questions, but he had actually asked her only a
few. And when he looked back at her file, he found that the sketchy
information made available to him didn’t seem to enlighten him as
much as just hammer home how much he didn’t know. Why hadn’t he
questioned her with the file in his hands, at least once? He
regretted not paying closer attention.

Toward the end, Tara worked almost
exclusively with Anderson, reviewing, being tested, and being
polished. It left Michael with a lot more time on his hands, and
that kept him constantly running into Chris and Joan. The tension
escalated, and nothing seemed to be able to stop the rise.

It would seem innocuous on the surface. A
moment in the corridor, an exchange of glances. Michael would
always try to keep himself neutral, but as Joan began to actually
improve before his very eyes, his resentment grew.

His journal had begun to bulge with pages
and pages of scrawled notes. From time to time, Anderson would ask
to see it, or would ask him what page he was up to, but still she
gave him little formal instruction. He found himself re-reading
some of her works and memorizing passages. He wanted to sound
prepared if she should question him—but she rarely did. And as he
saw more changes in Joan, he began to actually practice some moves
when he was alone in his room.

It had started with that first sight of
Chris doing that movement dance with Joan. It had seemed like the
obvious way to teach, but that would require that a trainer be as
graceful as a potential slave, and as skilled in all of the arts.
It went against Michael’s previous training. But something in it
seemed so right that he researched the topic on his own. It was
right there in front of him, in Anderson’s writings and in the
notes and essays by the trainers she admired.

The best trainers, they insisted, were
slaves and former slaves.

It was hardly a new concept. Hell, it was
almost common; it had even been part of what the leatherpeople
called the “Old Guard” style of SM. One had to work their way up
the ranks, as it were, by starting as a junior bottom, working up
to senior bottom, and then to junior top and so on. Conventional
wisdom usually held that the best tops were bottoms first.

Michael had run into that attitude first
with Geoff. Geoff, who had never been a slave, obviously
disagreed.

“It’s a common fallacy,” he had explained.
“The fact is, there are natural tops and natural bottoms. There’s
no reason to explore something that’s not a part of your nature
just to make someone else happy. I expect that my trainers will be
open-minded about new experiences, but I don’t insist that they act
in ways that are contrary to their nature.”

And that made sense. But Michael had tried
bottoming anyway, just to see if he could figure out why the slaves
liked it so much. He picked up a hot-looking guy at a leather bar
and went home with him for some bondage, a little spanking, and
some minor cock and ball torture. It was all devoid of
intercourse—Michael made it clear he wanted SM only, no cocksucking
or buttfucking. And that was okay—tops in the leather world were
well used to bottoms setting limits, and this one went along with
it.

The spanking was downright fun. The man’s
hands were slightly rough and large, and the way they felt when he
massaged Michael’s buttocks was simply pleasurable. Michael relaxed
and purred when the spanking began. Each warm slap pleasantly shook
his lower body and sent thrumming signals through to his balls. He
knew his ass looked good, and he liked the way the man admired it,
stopping frequently to squeeze and cup the cheeks. Michael was bent
over the back of a big leather chair, his body well supported, the
scent and feel of the leather gently arousing. And when the top
growled at him, telling him to admit he liked it, Mike grinned and
cheerfully did—and tried not to laugh. There hadn’t been the
slightest feeling of surrender in what he was feeling—only an
erotic sort of relaxation. The verbal exchange killed that,
though.

The genitorture started with a rough hand
job to get him tumescent. That was accomplished rather quickly, and
Michael watched as the older man pinched and pulled at the loose
skin around his balls, playing with sliding the skin on his
cockshaft back and forth. It was weird—but not especially painful.
Clamps were painful, though, and he was astonished to find that his
erection didn’t vanish when they were applied. The top was pleased
though, and his excitement was plain. He twisted and tweaked them,
changing where they would go on and off, tapping them, pulling at
them—until Michael finally felt the whole thing had become annoying
and casually called his safeword.

And was promptly released and congratulated
on how far he’d come in his “first session.” They had beers in the
kitchen afterward, and the man asked if he could watch Mike piss
before he left. Michael thought it would have probably been closer
to the man’s true desires to pissed on—but he obliged him with what
he asked for and went home.

He tried it again with a professional
dominatrix, and took his only flogging from her. That was a little
better, but when the session was over, he didn’t feel very, well,
submissive. His back was warm, and tender in some spots, and it did
feel great when she ran her long nails down his body. He liked her
wardrobe—she had worn high stiletto boots and stockings and a
wonderful PVC corset all in red and black. She was also into some
verbal attitude, and that didn’t seem as jarring as it had been
with the gay top. Maybe it was just more theatrical with her—but
Michael got into it. It was sexy.

But he couldn’t see wanting this regularly,
or being thankful enough to want to lick her boots or even bring
her a cup of tea. It was just okay. Pleasant sensations were nice.
But the minute they became more than exactly what he liked, they
just became frustrating or annoying. So, he decided that he wasn’t
made to be a bottom, and stopped exploring.

But this was something different somehow.
Michael had put his body in the hands of sensual tormentors, but
had never tried to be submissive. Had never actually done the tasks
which made up so much of the actual training. Now that he thought
of it, he realized that whenever Geoff wanted to show a movement or
demonstrate a response, he called in a more experienced slave. It
was only natural to use them that way—yet it wasn’t thought of as
using the slave as a teacher.

That started him thinking about Parker. The
guy had to have been a slave once, that was how he knew all that
stuff. Michael wondered how long ago that would have been, and who
trained him initially. Anderson, probably—except that she didn’t do
novices. So, who trained him first? And how long ago was it? Could
it have been Elliot and Selador?

There was one way to find out.

Anderson’s computer had a modem and a
connection to the Marketplace records office—she was entitled to
that. Geoff had had a connection too, but mainly used it to write
long letters back and forth with other trainers and his network of
spotters. You couldn‘t just dial in and get any information you
wanted; there were levels of safeguards with codes to allow someone
access to certain information. By himself, Michael had no standing.
He could log on, put in his ID code, and get what were essentially
email privileges. But Anderson had full access, and he had her
code.

Technically, he wasn’t supposed to use it
for this kind of research. But there was so much available in the
online archives that she had given him a code in order to download
files only available to fully recognized trainers. He was only
supposed to do it when she gave him a specific assignment—which had
been twice, so far. But he was familiar with the software enough to
do a quick search. No one would ever need to know.

He made the call and listened as the atonal
sounds of the modem echoed from under the desk. The archives asked
for a name and two codes, and he filled in the blanks using
Anderson’s information. Soon, he was presented with a full menu of
options. He went immediately to sale records and set a search for
Parker, Chris or Christopher. To narrow the search, he entered his
nationality, gender, and kept the search to dates after 1970.
Parker didn’t seem much older than thirty-three, but you could
never tell.

A green dot blinked slowly as the search
began.

Michael kept eyeing the door, expecting
Parker or Anderson to march in at any minute and demand to know
what he was doing. But Chris was busy with Joan and Anderson with
Tara—there was no one in the house who cared what Michael was
doing. He tapped the desk nervously. And bit back a curse when the
search turned up a 49-year-old Christopher Parker who was black and
currently living with an owner in Nova Scotia.