The Trainer (43 page)

He tried to hold it back, but couldn’t. When
the car pulled up and Joan picked up her coat and bag, he felt
tears in his eyes.

“You be good,” he said, hugging her. “I’ll
come visit you at that inn.”

“God’s blessing on you, Michael,” she said,
kissing him on the cheek. “You’ll be a wonderful trainer. Thank you
so much, Chris. And a million thanks to you, Trainer.”

Anderson bent down to kiss her as well, and
stroked her hair back. “You’ll do me proud, girl. My best to your
family.”

She walked down to the car, and Michael
missed her keenly. He turned back to Anderson, and asked, for the
first time, “What about me?”

“I’m not finished with you yet,” she said
casually. “I’m going to decide what to do next. Consider the next
few days a little time off, for good behavior. And Mike,” she said,
meeting his eyes, “you have been a good boy. I’m very pleased with
how you’re coming along.”

The relief he felt was embarrassingly
obvious. “Thanks, Trainer.” He watched her happily as she walked
down the hall and through the front room.

“And I’m not finished with you either, boy,”
Chris said from right behind his shoulder. Michael jumped—it was
one of those off-guard moments.

He turned and smiled and managed to ask,
“What does that mean?”

“You know what it means,” Chris said. “I’ll
see you later.”

It was a long day with that “later” hanging.
About one hundred times, Michael decided to walk up to Chris and
ask just what he had meant. He even practiced it in his mind.
“Chris,” he’d say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you
meant. Please explain it to me?”

But he didn’t. I’m not afraid of the answer,
he thought. It’s just that it might have something to do with my
training, and I don’t want to push it. It’s just one of those
“catch you off guard” things.

After a quiet dinner, Anderson broke open a
box of cards and started shuffling. “Anyone care for a few rounds
of bridge, poker, or gin rummy?” she asked. Vicente plopped himself
down in a chair in a way he never did when the slaves were around,
and Chris grinned as he pulled up to the table. It seemed that
“later” was not going to be after dinner. Michael excused
himself.

He was never very good at card games, and
didn’t want to spoil what was obviously a tradition by playing bad
hands. Instead, he went upstairs and did stretching exercises in
his bedroom. He thought of going out, but knew that he
wouldn’t.

“Later” might still be that night.

It wasn’t.

The following day, Anderson took one of her
rare journeys outside of the house, heading off to some local mall
to do some clothes shopping. Chris went with her, and they returned
with boxes and bags enough to fill the dining room table. Michael
was surprised and a little embarrassed when Anderson gave him a box
as a gift. It contained two really classy dress shirts and two silk
ties.

“I’m gettin’ mighty tired of the ones you
have, bucko. This is to give my eyes a rest.”

He accepted them with as much grace as he
could muster and tried them on in his room. They looked wonderful
on him. As he knotted one of the ties, he felt a strange thought
curl up inside him—that it wasn’t Anderson who chose this
particular shirt, the one with the delicate pinstripes that exactly
matched the light blue centers of his eyes.

He wore it to dinner. And avoided meeting
Chris’s eyes for the entire meal.

Again, when the dishes were cleared the
cards came out. “I really am a creature of habit,” Anderson said
with a chuckle. “Besides, I have to win back some of my hard earned
cash from these two hustlers. Care to join us for a hand or three,
Mike?”

“I’m not much of a card player,” he said,
excusing himself again. “I’d only lose my new shirt.”

Chris sat down to play. Michael went back
upstairs.

Michael jumped when his door opened. He was
standing in front of his mirror again, his mind a blank, his guts
tight with expectation. When he caught the scent of the leather,
his blood raced.

Chris was wearing the chaps, over jeans. He
was still wearing a button-down shirt, a crisp white that
contrasted with the darkness below his waist. He gave a quick jerk
of his head, toward his own room, and walked back out.

Oh God, Michael thought. This is it, and I
don’t even know what “it” is! But he followed automatically, and
when he walked into Chris’s bedroom, closed the door behind him.
Chris came up to Michael and turned him around. His powerful arms
pulled Michael down, until their lips met. Michael had never really
kissed a man before—the sensation of Chris’s facial hair scraping
against his lips was startling and threatening at the same time. He
found himself relaxing into the kiss, and moved his body up a
little, feeling the hard strength of Chris against him. He moaned
into Chris’s mouth when he felt the hand that caressed the length
of his cock, tracing it as it rose behind his fly.

Chris pulled at Michael’s hair, but gently,
and left stroking his dick in favor of opening his shirt to get at
his nipples. Michael moaned again as Chris’s fingers brushed one,
and then the other.

“Is this what you want?” Chris murmured into
Michael’s ear. His breath was hot, and Michael wanted to melt into
him—God, it was good! Another gliding brush of a nipple, and then
the buttons were all open and the shirt tails were being pulled up
and out. “Is this what you like?” Chris asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Michael sighed. He grinned and
reached out to start unbuttoning Chris’s shirt.

Chris caught his hands in both of his, and
held them so tightly that Michael felt himself wrenched downward.
Quickly, Chris changed his grip, twisting Michael around, and
throwing him down to the floor, making him land hard on his knees.
Michael fell forward onto one arm, the other one twisted up his
back so hard that he cried out in pain.

“Too bad,” Chris said. “That’s not what
you’re going to get.”

Michael’s dick didn’t seem to care that his
heart had taken a leap from erotic excitement to terror. Michael
squirmed until it hurt more, and then hissed through clenched
teeth, “What are you doing?“

“Giving you what you came for,” Chris said.
Michael felt a softness slither around the captive wrist. Then, he
felt a sharp pain, and he fell forward again, this time hitting the
floor. His other hand was easily captured and bent back, to be
secured in a quick wrapping that bound his hands together.

“Stop it!’ he cried, fighting and knowing
that he couldn’t fight. “Please—”

“‘Please’ belongs with the proper requests,”
Chris said, flipping Michael over. He laid the new shirt open and
pinched Michael’s nipple sharply. “‘Stop’ isn’t one of them. I’ll
stop when you’ve had enough.”

Michael bucked up, and regretted it
instantly—it hurt his shoulders on the way up and his wrists when
he fell back on them. “I—I don’t want this!” he sputtered.

“No?” Chris opened the waistband of
Michael’s trousers and pulled them open as well. Michael cursed and
felt tears forming as Chris freed his erection, jerking it out and
taking it in his fist. “This says something different.”

“Stop!’ Michael begged. “I didn’t consent! I
don’t want to—I don’t—”

“You don’t want to what, Mike? Be used like
a slave, or be a slave?” Chris dropped the cock and started
methodically stripping Michael, leaving the shirt on. Michael
kicked out twice, and Chris smacked him hard on the inner thigh,
twice for every struggle. Michael bit his lip, amazed at how much
that hurt.

When Mike was bare from the waist down,
Chris squatted down next to him again. “I notice you’re not
screaming for help,” he said. “Despite the fact that both the
Trainer and Vicente are downstairs and could probably hear you
quite well.”

“Fuck you!” Michael spat.

Chris raised one eyebrow and looked amused.
“Bad boy,” he said calmly. And with calm, deliberate movements, he
drew back his arm and smacked Michael’s penis so hard it slapped
against his belly. At the same time, he brought one hand down to
muffle the scream that Michael barely knew he was sounding.

“Come on, up with you,” Chris said after he
pulled his hand away. Michael gulped in a lungful of air and rolled
over when a neatly placed kick caught him in the thigh. From his
belly, he was dragged up to his knees. His cock waved in its erect
state—the smack had done nothing but hurt it and make it
hungrier.

Michael never hated his penis so much.

“Don’t think that you’re the first,” Chris
said, pushing Michael across the floor on his knees. “She gets
children like you all the time.”

Michael felt himself pulled to a stop, and
looked up as Chris walked around him. Chris sat on the bed, and
reached over to pick up something. When he came back to meet
Michael’s eyes, he was holding a pair of barrel-shaped adjustable
nipple clamps, attached together by a chain. He twisted the barrel
and opened the jaws, and then calmly compared the opening to the
size of Michael’s nipples.

“No,” Michael whispered.

“But I’m only following your dictate, Mike.
I understand that nipples should be sore, as much as possible.”
Chris leveled a stare at Michael and his tone shifted to something
a little less light-hearted. “If you pull away, I will hurt
you.”

Michael stayed still as the jaws closed
around each nipple. They were tight, and he gasped as Chris
adjusted them.

“Now, back to the subject at hand.” Chris
placed one boot over Michael’s cock and pressed. Michael dropped
back, until his ass rested on his calves, and grimaced as the
pressure became too much. Chris lightened up—a little.

“Tell me why you came here,” Chris
ordered.

“To learn how to train,” Michael gasped
out.

The boot twisted, and Michael clamped his
mouth shut, fighting against the scream that wanted to come out.
“Try again.”

“I swear, please!” Michael said, the
pressure making him begin to shake. “I didn’t realize—I didn’t
know!”

“That’s better.” The boot went away, and
Michael felt a tear trickle down his face. He bobbed slightly, and
then brought himself backup onto his knees. “Tell me what you know
now, Mike.”

“I don’t really know... it’s all so confused
in my mind! I never wanted to bottom—I don’t want to! But I keep
having these dreams, and I keep thinking of things—oh, Jesus, my
nuts!” The loss of the pressure had been followed by a tingling
sensation, and then the rush of blood back to his groin. Michael
groaned, and pulled his legs together.

Chris kicked them back apart with his boot
and grabbed hold of the chain from the nipple clamps. He tugged at
it and pulled Michael up higher on to his knees. “I’ll pay more
attention to your nuts in good time. Now, tell me about these
thoughts and dreams. This is recent to you, huh? You never saw it
before?”

“I don’t know!” Michael insisted. He gasped,
and then almost reeled backward when Chris tightened the
clamps.

“Then let me guess,” Chris said, twisting
the chain and holding Michael in place by his tits. “You came here
because no one’s good enough to master you, the favored son of
Hollywood. Mr. Golden Butt himself, too pretty, too smart for the
West Coast. And if there ever was going to be someone who could
bring you to your knees, your dick hard and your entire body aching
for a kiss or a kick, it had to be the master of masters.”

“No,” Michael cried, “No! I didn’t want
to!”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. You’ve been looking
for Daddy to come and make you a man, and all you’ve found are
models as soft and false as you are. So you run away from the easy
life to find the big, bad Trainer of Trainers, knowing that she’ll
fall in love with your sweet ass and want nothing more than to make
you her one, true slave.”

“No, that’s not true!”

“Isn’t it? Well, your dick is hard now, and
you’re still not screaming for help. I think you like this.”

Michael gritted his teeth and growled out
the pain he felt in his nipples. “Just—sex—” he gasped. “Come on,
fuck me, man!”

“Oh.” Chris nodded and dropped the chain on
the clamps. “Oh, thank you. Not that I wouldn’t have fucked you
anyway—but I am happy you’ve chosen to fight a little more.”

Without even thinking, Michael’s eyes
dropped to Chris’s crotch. There, framed by the chaps and straining
against the silver buttons of the 501s, was the outline of a cock
that put to rest any notion about height as relevant to dick size.
Chris laughed as he followed Michael’s eyes, and then stood up.
Michael wasn’t sure what was happening when Chris’s hand came to a
stop in front of his mouth. He was surprised when he felt the
folded handkerchief being pressed between his teeth. He grunted as
Chris pulled him up onto his feet and then shoved him face down
across the edge of the bed. Right in his line of sight was the
brown strap that Chris had infrequently used on the slaves in
training.

Michael tried to control the shaking that
swept his body. He heard a rustling sound, and saw the shirt Chris
had been wearing fall onto the bed. One arm, the slender flames
dancing, extended to pick up the strap.

“This is for not addressing me properly,”
Chris said. Michael felt something heavy against his lower back,
and then the slamming, stinging thud of the strap, laid hard across
both asscheeks. He bit into the handkerchief and it did help muffle
the cry. “It’s ten for each offense,” Chris reminded him. “After
address, there’s still not answering questions directly, lying, and
acting defiantly.”

Michael counted every stroke, every
explosion of pain. They landed in precise formation, covering him
from the top of his ass to the backs of his thighs. He squirmed, he
jumped, and he shifted against the bed, every movement reminding
him of the tight clamps on his nipples. But every second he had to
concentrate on them was disrupted by a new kind of suffering.