The Trainer (9 page)

Well, here is pretty nothing too, his other
inner voice snapped.

He headed for the dining room, where Parker
was already seated, looking sharp except for that new beard growing
in. It would probably look nice when it was finished, Michael
thought charitably. I guess when you’re that short, you go for
anything that ups your masculinity. That petty observation helped a
little—he was even able to smile as he took his seat.

“Anderson’s not coming to dinner,” he said
lightly, tossing his napkin in his lap. “She says she’ll see you
later to work with Tara.”

“Thank you,” Chris said pleasantly.

Tara entered almost immediately, and started
to serve. Vicente poked his head in for compliments, as usual, and
the silence that reigned was almost as effective an appetite
suppressant as that vague feeling of nausea which had returned
after he had been so casually dismissed by the Trainer. Michael
poked at the food, knowing that the soup was excellent and the
bread was probably as good as bread got—but that he was also in no
mood to enjoy them. Tara was her usual well behaved self, earning
nothing more interesting than one quick stern look from Chris when
she touched the rim of a glass with the water pitcher.

God! How could he not compare this austere
setting with dinner at home (why was he thinking of Geoff’s place
as home?), with everyone serving or kneeling on the floor waiting
for choice tidbits and lewd caresses. The clatter of the silver and
china was always drowned out by happy chatter and gossip, plus the
various reports of who had gotten into trouble today, and what had
been done about it. Noisy and friendly and just a little bit
chaotic. Where the figure of authority was more like a really cool
dad than a cold, distant... Don’t even think that word, Michael
cautioned himself.

But here was nothing but dark gloominess.
Michael knew he was being sulky and didn’t care. It was Parker who
broke the silence first.

“Did you enjoy the city today?”

“Yeah.” Michael leaned back, giving up the
pretense of eating. “Yeah, it was nice to get out. I’d like to see
some of the sights, I guess. You born here?”

“A New Yorker by the breed.”

“Great. Maybe you can tell me where the
scene is around here.”

“The scene? Do you mean the local
sado-dabblers?”

Michael smirked in spite of himself. “Cute,
I like that. Yeah, the clubs and stuff. I’d like to touch base with
the community out here.”

“Perhaps we’re crossing lines, then. Do you
mean the leather clubs? The bars for men, the organizations for
D-and-S’ers? Or the local Marketplace people?”

“The amateurs,” Michael acknowledged. “Like
Gates of Pleasure. Or the International SM Activist Organization.
They got a local Chapter?”

Parker looked a little amused. “I suppose
they do,” he admitted. “In the office, you’ll find a few local sex
papers—at least one of them will have a listing of the various
organizations. There is a community of sorts, in the broader,
non-political definition of the term. Some clubs, public and not
so. Do you like to slum?”

“Hell, yeah!” Michael brightened a little.
This was the most he’d gotten from Chris in days.

“Really? Even after what happened?”

Michael sat back, a little surprised. “Oh.
You heard.”

“Anderson has shared all of your history
with me.”

The weight of that settled in, and Michael
bit his lip. “Well, you know, everyone makes mistakes. That doesn’t
mean I should deny myself the pleasure of playing in the
uncultivated fields.” That had been a favorite phrase of
Geoff’s.

“I suppose not. I do a little leather bar
hopping myself.” Chris tossed his napkin on the table, and within
seconds, Tara was at his side, clearing the dishes away. “I think
Mike is finished, Tara, you may clear his as well. And we’ll take
coffee in the front room.”

“Yes, Chris,” she said brightly, dropping a
smile toward Mike as she gathered up his plate and utensils. Well,
well, Michael thought, watching the woman work. Leather bars, huh?
The little guy’s a fag—and that explains why he’s so cool about not
slipping the old sausage to the girls. What a fucking waste, man—to
be surrounded by pussy and want only dick. He turned to follow Tara
with his eyes, and then switched back to Chris when she left the
room.

“God, she’s good.”

“Yes, she’s a good girl. She’ll do very
well.” Chris stood up and headed toward the front room, and Michael
followed him. This was also a first—usually, they had a cup of
coffee at the table, and Vicente kept more on hand if they wanted
dessert later.

It was a cold evening—you could hear the
wind whistle around the bay window, and watch the tree branches
sway back and forth. And it was so very dark, so early in the day.
Michael fought back a shiver and dropped into a wingbacked chair,
grateful that it didn’t face the window. One benefit of the cold,
though—you could light a fire and enjoy the benefits of the heat.
He watched as Chris laid kindling and positioned a few thicker
branches around a log.

“Why doesn’t she call you ‘sir?’” Michael
asked.

“I don’t like it,” Chris answered, never
taking an eye away from what he was doing. “It also becomes a form
of discipline for the clients—they must remember to call me by my
name. I find it a useful exercise.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong by having them
call me ‘sir,’ am I?”

“No. It’s a good thing for clients to have
differing expectations during training. They will certainly have
them while in service.” Chris struck a long match and lit the
twisted paper at the bottom and sides of his neat stack of wood. He
tossed the match into the fireplace and stood, closing the metal
grate. Then, he took the seat opposite Michael, just in time to
receive a cup from Tara. “After serving, you may have a half hour
of free time, Tara.”

“Thank you, Chris.”

She handed a cup to Michael with another
smile, and he felt as warmed by her as he did by the steadily
curling flames. Yes, you could tell she was an Anderson slave.
Never a moment of hesitation, always a pleasant expression, and
that indefinable aura of... confidence?

As he watched her place a silver coffee pot
on the sideboard, Michael pondered the sudden revelation. Was it
confidence that he was watching? Yes—a certain sureness of step, as
though she knew that what she was doing was proper, a kind of well
practiced dance, subtle and deliberate at the same time.

When she was gone, he slumped into his
chair, reassuming his morose mood as quickly as he had lost it. How
the hell am I ever going to learn that? he asked himself. How the
hell can you teach it?

“You have to let go of the past,” said
Chris, almost making Michael spill his coffee.

“What?”

“You’re wondering what is going on—and how
you’re going to get over your current difficulties—or am I
incorrect?” He looked so cool, calmly sitting there, his legs
crossed and his tie so straight. He spoke gently, and looked
Michael directly in the eyes waiting for an answer.

“Jesus, does Anderson teach you how to read
minds as well as see through walls?”

Chris smiled. “As a matter of fact, yes, she
does. Or, you pick it up after years of working with people who
must reveal all of their secrets to you.”

“But how am I supposed to learn if she
doesn’t give me a chance?” Michael stood up and began to pace.
“I’ve been here for days, and it seems like I’ve done nothing!
Yeah, I fucked up my first interview, but people make mistakes—how
else can you learn? Isn’t it wasting her time if she’s not going to
bother to actually teach me?”

“It might be, if that was what she was
doing.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Perhaps you are being taught
something.”

“What? Where the supermarket is? What music
she likes?”

“The modern equivalent, perhaps, of chopping
wood and carrying water.”

Michael looked back at Chris, who now
avoided eye contact. He stared out of the window and gathered his
thoughts. Chopping wood and carrying water? Wasn’t that a line in a
Van Morrison song, something about enlightenment...

Oh yeah! Michael remembered seeing a movie
once, about some kind of samurai. He had rented it by accident with
a load of chop-socky films, something to waste a Saturday afternoon
with. Late at night, he had popped the tape in, and found himself
fascinated by the tale, despite it not being dubbed and not
containing too many fight scenes until the end of the movie.

It was the story of a young man who went to
learn from an old guy living alone in the forest, a guy who was
supposed to be this great warrior. The young guy thought he was
going to learn all about swordplay, but for months, all he did was
chop and gather wood, hunt small animals, and carry endless buckets
of water. The old guy beat on him a lot, too—smacking him with
sticks, hitting him when he least expected it—until the kid finally
wised up and began to defend himself. Slowly, he was being
trained—but very slowly. By the end of the movie, he was
invincible, wiping out huge armored bad guys left and right.

Michael turned back to Chris and sighed.
“When does she start smacking me with a big stick?”

Something that might have been a snicker
escaped Chris’s lips. “Perhaps when you ask nicely.”

Michael sank back down into the chair. “Man,
I’ve been an idiot.”

“Yes.”

Michael shot Chris a glare. “Gee, thanks.”
The snotty little bastard.

“I only agreed with your honest assessment.
The question now is: what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know!”

“Then you have a problem.”

“You’re a lot of help!”

“Yes, I know.” Again, that little smirk.
“Perhaps we should continue with a safer topic? You were asking
about the local scene—you know, Ken Mandarin lives in Manhattan at
least part of the year, and she is very familiar with it. Perhaps
you should pay her a courtesy call. I’m sure she’d love to show you
around. You’re young, healthy—just her type.”

Mandarin—oh yeah, the very successful Asian
spotter. She didn’t send clients to Geoff, but she was known in the
West Coast circles. Michael smiled. “She’s hot! I saw her in LA
with these two slaves—they looked like a married couple, you know
the type. They were the hit of a party I went to. Everyone wanted a
piece of them. I thought she handled them well... and let me tell
you, I wouldn’t have minded a piece of the slaves or the
owner.”

“She claims those two are siblings,
actually. Yes, they were a good buy for her.” Chris nodded, a
momentary look of pleasure crossing his face. “One of my favorite
projects. They responded very well to training.”

“Brother and sister? Now that’s kinky. You
trained them?”

“Well, they were trained at my... my former
house.” Michael looked up at that little hesitation and opened his
mouth, a question all ready to go. But Chris was deliberately
looking away again, and he held it back.

So, you’ve got some difficulties of your
own, you cocky shit, he thought, sipping his now lukewarm coffee. I
wonder what happened that you’re not there any more. Fired? Left on
your own? Why haven’t you gone someplace else yet? How come you
haven’t opened a house of your own?
Bigshot-pal-of-Anderson-who’s-not-really-on-vacation, what the hell
are you doing here?

“So, what are you guys doing with Tara
tonight?” Michael asked casually, breaking the momentary
silence.

“Tonight, we’re going over some of the very
skills you mentioned earlier. Tara has shaped up considerably in
the time she’s been here, finding ways to anticipate the wishes and
expectations of her service. Tonight we’re going to do a little
testing. She’s almost ready to leave, you know.”

“Yeah, I heard.” And meanwhile, Joan’s not
getting the benefit of my training, he thought. He kept his face
composed, trying not to show his annoyance. “Do you think—could I
watch you guys while you do Tara? Test her, I mean?”

“No.” Chris topped off his own coffee and
raised his eyebrow to ask Mike if he wanted more. Mike, feeling a
flush of humiliation and anger growing, compressed his lips and
shook his head.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because you’re not ready.”

“Well, how the hell can I ever be ready if I
can’t do my fucking job!”

Chris carefully put the coffee pot back down
and settled into his chair. “Perhaps you can begin by listening
carefully to what you’re told and obeying Anderson’s instructions
to the letter. For example, you could clean up your language.” He
smiled slightly and curiously began to rise back out of his
chair.

“Yeah? Well, fuck you, asshole! How the fuck
do you like that fucking language!”

“Oh, I’m sure he likes it just fine,” came
the Trainer’s voice from the doorway. “Why, Chris is a big fan of
trash talk, aren’t you, Chris?”

“Occasionally, Trainer. In small amounts, at
the appropriate occasion.”

Oh Jesus, Michael thought. How did I know
that was going to happen? I even saw Chris starting to get up, but
I didn’t think about why! He wearily got to his feet and turned to
see Anderson leaning against the door jamb, her arms folded. The
light from the fire caught the silver bracelets on one arm and shot
beams of reflected light across the room.

“I’m sorry, Anderson, I shouldn’t have said
all that,” Michael sighed.

“Uh-huh.”

“And—and I won’t do it again.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And, well, I’m really sorry.”

Anderson sighed and nodded. “Okay, Mike. I
think you’ve had enough time with that particular shovel. Let’s
switch to another one—tell me why you’re here.”

He didn’t understand the shovel remark, but
ignored it. “To learn how to train slaves.”

“And what have you been doing?”