The Trainer (3 page)

“Jesus! I’m ready to fucking explode!”

“I got you, Mike, I got you!” And suddenly,
there was a cool touch on the head of Mike’s cock, and then the
reappearance of Ethan’s sucking, swallowing mouth, only tighter
this time, hotter, and Michael finally let it come, shooting so
hard he couldn’t even keep his head up. He arched his back and felt
Ethan’s lips smashing against his groin as he came, and groaned out
loud.

“Oh man, oh man!” he said, when his cock
stopped spurting and started that throbbing slide into softness. He
felt Ethan’s mouth gently surrounding his glans, licking, letting
the cock fall slowly back against his thigh. Then he felt a condom
being stripped off of him, and looked down.

“Shit, where did that come from?”

“My secret,” grinned the other man. “I hope
you didn’t mind.”

“Mind? I didn’t even know it was there!
Shit, that was fantastic!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Ethan said. He
wiped his mouth and scooped up a plastic wrapper from the sand, and
then stood. “Dinner is at five, okay? You can stay here or come
back and soak in the Jacuzzi, or whatever you want until then.”

“Thanks—thanks, man.”

“It was my pleasure to serve.” And with that
odd statement, Ethan walked away, heading back up to the house.
Michael didn’t know what to say to such a comment, so he didn’t say
anything. Besides, it was better to just lie back and relax in the
afterglow of that fabulous blowjob. Man, gay guys are really good,
he noted. I’d be gay, if I didn’t like tits so much.

He let himself fall into a reverie of erotic
images, and then, when he was feeling more awake, went off to find
his trunks and went back to the house.

More surprises were in store for him that
night.

“Did Ethan show you a good time on the
beach?” was Uncle Niall’s first question when Michael came
downstairs for dinner. Michael had changed into pull-on pants and a
T-shirt, and felt better than he’d felt in weeks, relaxed and
rested. The question stopped him in his tracks.

“It’s okay, I know all about it,” his uncle
continued. “I sent him.”

“Um. Yeah, that’s what he said.” Michael
looked around. Ethan was nowhere in sight. “What can I say, Uncle
Niall? He was great.”

“Good. I thought you looked a little tense
when you got here. Let’s sit down and eat, I have some things to
tell you.” The older man waved at the table by the open doors that
led to the deck. It was set for two.

“Isn’t Ethan eating with us?” Michael took a
seat.

“No, he eats with Jerry, in the kitchen.
That’s part of what I’m going to tell you about.”

“Okay,” Michael said. He glanced toward the
kitchen, feeling suddenly aware that it wasn’t that far to the
little room from where he and his uncle were seated.

Uncle Niall dug into the grilled vegetables
and sea scallops, serving Michael and then pouring wine for both of
them. “Here’s to the Marketplace,” he said, raising his glass, “and
to your introduction to it, nephew.”

“The Marketplace?” Michael echoed, tapping
his glass lightly against Niall’s. “You mean the stock market?”

“No, boyo, a slave market. Ethan isn’t my
lover, and Jerry isn’t my assistant or housekeeper. They’re both my
slaves; I bought them. Eat, and I’ll explain everything.”

Michael didn’t remember eating that night or
drinking, or even getting back to his room later on, after he and
his uncle continued their rather one-sided conversation out on the
deck. He remembered asking lots of questions, and his uncle’s long,
complicated responses. But it was almost too much to believe all at
once. A world—wide network of voluntary slaves? Secret auctions of
human property? Actual money changing hands, and contracts signed,
with training locations and special schools and entire houses
filled with people who could be traded or gambled away on a
whim?

And his Uncle Niall—his own mother’s little
brother—was a part of it?

He didn’t remember saying that he had to
think about all of it, but his uncle did usher him upstairs to the
spare bedroom with gentle encouragement to do just that. Michael
thought he was going to remain awake all night, but in due time he
fell asleep, and when he awoke the next morning, Ethan was kneeling
next to his bed, naked except for that little tube around his neck,
swinging gently between the silver rings.

“Would you care for some more attention,
sir?” he asked, his eyes bright. And as Michael turned back the
sheets to reveal his morning erection, Ethan wordlessly moved his
mouth over it and proved that yesterday’s afternoon delight was no
unique circumstance.

I could really get used to this, Michael
reflected.

And I have gotten used to it, he thought,
pushing the hair out of his eyes again. Used to people being
deferential, slaves being eager to please, my luggage being carried
and unpacked. It actually feels weird having to carry my own stuff.
It should be no big deal—but it is. Maybe she does that with all
her trainees. Surprises them; puts them off balance. Everyone knew
that doing that was an essential part of training—you broke down
expectations first, and then built new ones. Everyone knew that,
because it was one of the methods she approved of.

There’s nothing like an Anderson-trained
slave. There were maybe ten trainers in her class in the whole
world, and they could train only so many slaves at a time. But the
trainers they taught were especially valued. Months—or even a
year—with Anderson could guarantee him a prominent placement in a
large household, or in a training facility. He knew that some
trainers spent even more time with her—years even! But that wasn’t
necessary for his purposes. Just enough time to say that he had
studied with her would be fine, and anyone would welcome him as a
partner. Or, he could just go freelance and open a house of his
own, or travel from job to job for a while. If he was properly
trained. If Anderson approved of him when he left.

Anderson, the mystery trainer who saw no one
except by appointment, who attended no auctions or parties or
sporting events, visited none of the ranches or resorts where
people of the Marketplace gathered. Her rare appearances at the
trainer-only gatherings were spoken of like saintly visitations.
Yet, her writings on the training of slaves and the
responsibilities of owners were part of the canon of the field; her
contracts and her method of structuring and ranking slaves were
almost universally applied.

She had studied methods of teaching,
indoctrination, and even brainwashing, and was rumored to have been
an observer in military, medical, language, and penal instruction.
Her writings certainly contained comparisons of every technique
from toilet training in North America to captivity trauma training
designed for the Mossad. And all of these methods were somehow
entwined in her seemingly endless instructions about how to find,
create, and maintain perfect servitors.

In a way, she was the ultimate master—for
she taught not only slaves and trainers, but she taught the masters
how to manage their slaves and trainers. Her structure of
certifying owners for the North American markets was considered an
international model for safety and security, and many of her former
students spent their time flying all over the world to make sure
that new owners would be ready for the valuable property they were
about to take responsibility for. Hell, that wouldn’t be such a bad
way to make a living either!

Michael dropped his eyes from his reflection
and gathered his dignity and confidence. It was time to make up for
his embarrassing entrance into the world of the Trainer of
Trainers. How on earth had he misread the man at the front door as
a slave? When Anderson had introduced them formally, he looked into
Chris Parker’s eyes and what he saw there made him almost gasp out
loud. Amusement, disdain and contempt, sure—but also a clear and
challenging look that read “I can take you down right now, kid,
just try me.” It was hostility threaded through with such
confidence that Michael had, for one split second, been actually
afraid of the man!

Impossible. And stupid. Michael put it down
to jet lag and nervousness. Of course he was a little off balance
the first time he entered the house of America’s most famous
trainer. It was only natural to make a little mistake somewhere.
There was no reason for Parker to hold this against him, and
certainly no reason to be afraid of the little man. He was only a
guest, after all. Perhaps he would be gone soon.

If only he wasn’t here at all! Michael
allowed himself a moment of bitterness, and then buried it. He had
work to do. Anderson’s guests were none of his concern. He had to
focus on her and his goals and make sure he handled this whole
thing right this time. There was no other alternative for him.

When Michael came back downstairs, he found
that the house was larger than he had thought—it extended on both
sides of the staircase, with two front rooms. He admired an art
deco framed mirror in the hallway before he stepped into the room
identified as the office. There was a wall of books, and another
wall of shelves full of different colored binders with neat labels
on the spines. There was a desk and a conference table, three file
cabinets, and a computer set-up.

All work and no play, he thought
ludicrously. But he gathered himself and approached the table where
Anderson and Parker were sitting.

“Have a seat, Michael,” she said, raising
her eyes to him. “I want to get to know you a little before we
begin.”

“I thought my whole life was in my file.” He
took a seat and folded his hands on the tabletop. In an instant, he
changed his mind and put them in his lap.

“Probably. But I can’t be bothered to read
all that. I was briefed on the important parts.” She flipped it
open and fingered a few pages.

Okay, it was lengthy. Geoff was a detail
guy. Michael wondered who did the briefing. Probably Parker. Damn.
The older man was just sitting there in his jacket and tie, his
eyes neutral, quiet and patient, like a secretary. Well, at least
he wasn’t glaring at him any more.

“You’re recommended by Mr. Geoff Negel, from
Santa Cruz,” Anderson remarked. “You’ve trained with him for two
years. I’m familiar with his techniques, but I don’t approve. Did
you know that?”

“Yes.” Oh boy, did he know! When she didn’t
say anything else, he took it as a request for more information.
“Geoff—he was a good trainer. Is a good trainer. And I respect him,
very much. But I can’t say I approved of his methods and results
either.”

“Yet you still believe he’s a good trainer?”
Parker spoke up, leaning back in his chair. “It would seem that not
liking his methods or results might indicate that his training left
much to be desired.”

“Well, it was okay for what it was,” Michael
said easily. Again, he was met by silence.

“Do go on,” Anderson finally said.

“Geoff is kind of New Age, you know? He
believes in a kinder, gentler Marketplace.” Michael made a snorting
sound of amusement, then ground his teeth as this was also met with
silence. These two are about as fun as pallbearers, he thought.
“Okay, here’s the thing. Geoff has this idea that slaves and owners
should be a ‘working team of equal social importance.’ So, he
brought this into his training plan, which I think plays up to a
slave’s ego too much. I mean, I actually heard him tell them that
their owners wouldn’t exist without them! And that was just a
little too much. It’s one thing to talk about balance, the whole
yin/yang thing. But he just went too far.”

“I see.” Anderson nodded. “And your personal
philosophy?”

“The way I see it, slaves provide service to
people who want it. They provide it in a specific way that’s not
really encouraged or even legally permitted in most of the world.
They do it to get their needs met, but they sign on for the real
thing, not just playing around on weekends.” Michael leaned back
himself, confident. “Our owners have a right to people who know
what they want and are willing to pay a certain price to get it.
They’re entitled to well behaved property that fulfills their
fantasies and makes their lives easier and more pleasurable. And a
good trainer will produce just that—obedient, submissive slaves who
are happy to be considered inferior to their masters. Not this
‘co-partners in a social experiment’ thing that Geoff is doing. I
think that raises expectations too much.”

Which was more or less what Anderson had
said herself in a special brief she had appended to her notes and
articles from the previous year. He untwined his fingers and
watched her for reaction. Geoff always glowed when his students
repeated his own words back to him.

She just nodded again. “We’re not doing any
social experiment here,” she said. “I train slaves. I train
trainers. I provide a service, and that’s the extent of my role.
You’re not my usual type of student—you’re new to the Marketplace,
and you’ve been unconventionally schooled. So, I expect something
extraordinary from you—I want to see a profound level of dedication
to the craft and to the process of learning it. I want complete
honesty in all things, and I want to hear about any problems or
questions you have with my ideas or my methods. I probably won’t
give you answers, but you’ll ask anyway. I also want you to keep a
journal. I don’t care what you put into it, as long as every day
you have something to report about learning. I may not ask to look
at it. But if I do ask, you’re gonna turn it over to me
immediately. Got that?”

“Yep.”

Was that a tiny little sigh coming from
Chris Parker? Michael shifted slightly to look at him, but the man
had his eyes lowered to the tabletop, where he was examining one of
the pages that Anderson had set aside. Michael felt the urge to
reach over and grab it away, wondering how the hell this man got
the right to read his file.