The Trainer (4 page)

“Mr. Parker is my guest,” Anderson said with
a slight smile, “but he’s also doing some work with the clients
here. I strongly suggest that you listen to what he says about
them—including the one you’re training on. It should go without
saying that you could learn from him as well—once you make up for
your ill manners at the door.” Parker smirked at that, and Michael
controlled a sudden charge of both embarrassment and anger. Jeeze,
weren’t they going to let that go?

“We may have anywhere from two to four
clients here at any time. You will be given the responsibility for
one, under my supervision. I’ll also have special training sessions
with some of the others which you might be helping with.
Eventually, you’ll design your own training schedule, keeping in
mind when I will want to see you, and making sure that your client
is never idle or without guidance. But at first, I will tell you
exactly what to do and when and with whom.”

“Understood.”

“Then we can begin the formal instruction
tomorrow.” She stood up, and the silver bracelets she wore on one
wrist jangled slightly. “I suggest you take some reading material
up to your room, and try to get a good night’s sleep tonight. In
the morning, I’ll introduce you to your client, and to the rest of
the house.”

Michael nodded. “Okay, thanks.” Then,
suddenly, he felt that now familiar sensation of unease as she hit
him with a stern, measuring gaze that was filled with expectation.
He glanced over to Parker and saw that the man was standing.
Michael stood up, slowly, and looked back at Anderson. Was this
what he was supposed to do? She sighed and left the room, shaking
her head.

As soon as the door closed behind her,
Parker started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Where did you learn your manners? Or,
should I ask—how was it that you’ve failed to learn any manners?”
Chris Parker walked over to the desk and picked up two brown
leather binders and tossed them onto the table in front of
Michael.

“What are you talking about?” Michael
grabbed at them and glanced at the spines. They were two of
Anderson’s yearly briefs, from ten years ago.

“You’re in the presence of the Trainer.” And
he said it like that, too. Michael could hear the capital letter,
and for an instant, he shivered. He had never been sure how exactly
one could make a word sound so different without being theatrical
about it. But Parker was continuing, his hand gesturing as he
spoke. “Anderson stands up, and you loll back in your chair like
some kind of satrap, expecting her to make some gesture to you on
the way out.”

“I’m not a slave,” Michael protested. “Where
I come from, it’s the slaves that jump up and down, not trainers.
How the hell was I supposed to know what to do around here? It’s
not like she sent me a manual or anything. What kind of manners is
that, anyway? From the ’50s or something?”

“Where you came from doesn’t matter anymore,
Mr. LaGuardia.” The much shorter man leaned against the edge of the
desk and folded his arms. “And neither does where the protocol
comes from. You’re here now. Is that what you’re going to tell her
when she instructs you in anything else? That it’s not the way you
used to do things? That you never heard of that way before?”

“I just said I didn’t get any instructions,”
Michael repeated with a scowl. “What’s it to you anyway?”

Well, that did something. Parker’s
expression dropped from sarcastic and angry to almost gentle and
amused in less than a second.

“Not a thing,” he said lightly, as if he had
been chastised. “Not a single thing, Mr. LaGuardia.” He dipped his
head in an almost respectful nod and headed toward the door.

Michael watched him leave, a million
questions mingling with angry retorts in his mind. Don’t make
things worse, his cautionary side warned him. So, he waited until
the door closed again and then cursed out loud and headed for the
open dictionary that was on the stand across from the table. He
looked up the word ‘satrap,’ cursed again, and took his two binders
to bed with him. It seemed like they were going to be his only
company that night.

He was correct in that, at least.

* * * *

“Good morning, sir, what would you like for
breakfast?”

Well, finally, a smiling face at the house.
Michael flipped back that unruly strand of hair that endeared him
to so many girls and looked up into the eyes of a man who was
actually taller than he was—quite a feat, actually.

He must be 6’4” at least, he thought. He was
also quite dark-skinned, with tightly curly, ink-black hair. The
white chef’s jacket he wore was a poetic contrast to his skin and
his eyes, very classical.

“
Um. What’s fresh?” Michael asked, looking around the dining
room. There was little evidence that others had been here, except
for a stack of New York
Times
sections on one
corner.

“I got some nice bagels, and there are two
eggs left.” The big man held up two fingers and grinned. “I also
saved a glass of orange juice for you, since you come from the
orange country.” He had an accent Michael couldn’t exactly
place.

“Yeah, that’s good. OJ, coffee, a bagel,
that’s just great.”

“Okay, I get right on it.” And he swept into
the kitchen, where Michael caught the sight of someone else
working.

Man, I don’t know anyone, but it seems
everyone knows me. He reached for the paper, and dropped it as he
heard boot heels on the hallway floor.

Parker stepped in, a cup of coffee in one
hand. He was neatly dressed, just like last night, in a suit and
tie. He needed a shave, though.

“Good morning, Mr. LaGuardia.”

“Morning.”

“Have you met Vicente?”

“The cook?”

“Yes, among other things. Perhaps I should
warn you that he is also not a slave.” Parker said this evenly,
without any hint of teasing, and Michael sighed.

“Thank you,” he said. “I—wouldn’t have
realized that.”

“I know.” Again, there was no trace of
smugness in Parker’s manner, and Michael felt even more embarrassed
about his behavior the night before.

“Listen,” he said awkwardly. “I made a big
mistake last night. I’m sorry. Can we start from a new
beginning?”

“No, we can’t. But that’s a slightly better
apology than the one you offered last night.” Parker sat down and
placed his cup on the table. Instantly, the door from the kitchen
opened, and the unfamiliar woman came sailing out with a coffeepot,
refilled Parker’s cup, and then went back without a word. Michael
admired her. She was not like Joan at all—taller, blonde, and with
a slightly bookish air. She was also older, possibly in her
forties. Michael had never met a slave in training who was so old.
But she had class, and was even a little unconsciously sexy in the
controlled way she moved.

“That’s a nice piece of work,” Michael
said.

“Yes.”

Michael tried again. “I mean, that was
pretty good, the way she knew you needed coffee. How do you teach
them to know when to come in?”

“Anderson instructs them in the art of
seeing through walls.”

“Seeing—through walls?”

“Yes.” Parker added milk to the coffee and
didn’t say more.

Well, aren’t we chatty this morning, Michael
thought sourly. It was obvious that the seeing-through-walls thing
wasn’t going to go anywhere. He tried to think of something else to
say, and was gratified when the blonde woman came back with his
breakfast. The silence continued for a minute or two, broken only
by the sounds of work being done in the kitchen.

“I thought you worked on Long Island,”
Michael finally said. “With Elliot and Selador.”

“I did. I am... taking a break.”

Well, that was interesting. That little
hesitation brought Michael’s curiosity up. “Huh. Some break! Going
from an entry level house to this one?”

“I’m not exactly working here, Mr.
LaGuardia. I am only a guest.”

“Listen—Mr. LaGuardia is my dad. How about
you call me Mike, like everyone else does?”

Parker sighed. “Very well. My name is
Chris.”

Michael sat back and laughed. “Jeeze, you’re
so formal around here! Standing when she leaves the room, using
last names and titles—when do you relax?”

“I am relaxing.” This was delivered with
such deadpan ease that Michael didn’t know how to react at first.
Luckily, laughter rang from the hallway. This time, both men rose
when she walked into the room.

“You certainly are, my dear,” Anderson said
as she passed him and pointed at Michael. “Time to work, Mike—it is
Mike, isn’t it? Let’s introduce you to the bodies we have under
this roof.”

Michael crammed a piece of bagel in his
mouth and gulped the rest of his juice and followed her.

It was not a large number of people to meet.
The blonde woman at breakfast was Tara.

“Tara has been with me for four months,”
Anderson said. “She is currently serving a four-year contract, and
is in her first year. Her owner sent her to brush up on
anticipation skills, and she has improved dramatically.”

“Thank you, Trainer.” She was noticeably
pleased, but didn’t look like she was insufferably prideful.
Michael took a quick inventory of her—definitely mid-forties,
possibly very toned under the modern housemaid’s uniform she was
wearing. She had a silver chain around her throat that dipped below
the neckline of the dress—probably her collar. Her sea-green eyes
were unusually deep and dark, captivating in her somewhat sharp
face.

“Tara will be helping Joan settle in,”
Anderson continued, “and then will be leaving us in a bit. Joan
will be your project. We’ll work on her together for two months,
and then I’ll leave part of Joan’s training in your hands—if you’re
up to it.”

“Oh, I will be!”

“Let’s hope you are.”

Joan was of course the pretty, plump girl
from the previous night. He reappraised her as Geoff taught him,
scanning her physically while looking for signs of emotional
display. Next to the fair and experienced Tara, she seemed plain
and chubby—dark-eyed and autumn- haired with that pale-skinned
touch of color in her cheeks. Her stance was more stiff than
Tara’s, a sure sign of recent training, or perhaps tension. It was
strange to examine fully dressed slaves; even Geoff hadn’t allowed
his clients to be dressed in normal clothing, preferring fetish
wear of all kinds. And he would have never allowed a slave to carry
so much weight. He wondered if Anderson had her on a strict
diet.

“This is Michael LaGuardia, our new training
student,” Anderson said.

“How do you do, sir?” asked Joan. She smiled
when she spoke, and her inflection indicated nothing but sincerity.
Her maid’s dress was an unrelieved black, and the apron she had
been wearing the previous night was gone. He struggled with the
sense that he should shake her hand—how absurd! He nodded briskly
instead.

“Michael, this is Joan, our newest client.
Joan is fresh from a year in Japan. This is her finishing up tour,
before she enters into a ten-year contract with her owner.”

“Wow!” Michael couldn’t help it; the
exclamation came out by itself. “Ten years?”

Anderson’s face revealed neither surprise or
dismay at his outburst. “Yes. As she will explain, she’s following
a tradition.”

“I can’t wait to hear this story.” Michael
smiled at her, and Joan smiled back, a slight, sweet little curve
of her mouth that illuminated her entire face. He decided that
although Tara was absolutely prettier, Joan looked like more fun.
He instantly wondered what her ass was like, and whether she
laughed in bed. Ten years! What a long service term! It was a
little hard to snap back to the present and keep listening to
Anderson.

“You’ll be in charge of quite a bit
regarding Joan. Eventually, I’ll want you to keep detailed records,
file daily reports to me about progress, and oversee use and
discipline. However—” Anderson pinned him with one of those looks
again. “However—for at least the first month, everything you want
to do that is not on my schedule or at my direction must be cleared
with me first. Is that understood?”

“Sure is.” Michael nodded.

“Good. I will let you know when you have
gotten to a point where you may take over her scheduling. Here is
her file.” She passed it over—it looked substantial. “You will
interview her as a trainer this afternoon. Tape-record every
interview session and keep the tapes labeled and available.”

He kept nodding, itching to look in the file
and get to work.

“If Vicente has extra duties, he’ll come to
me first. But if for any reason he comes to you, treat his chores
as priorities. Everything else you’ll learn as you go—and I do
expect you to learn.”

“That’s what I’m here for!”

“Good. Tara, with me, Joan to your duties,
and Mike off to study. I’ll be busy the rest of the morning. Joan
will be free for her first interview at two.” With that, she swept
out of the room, heels clicking and bangles shaking, her hair
rising and falling behind her like a black and silver veil. Tara
followed her gracefully and Joan dipped a curtsy to Michael before
hurrying off upstairs.

Time to get to work.

By the time Michael finished going through
Joan’s paperwork, his first real inklings of inadequacy had started
to take hold. There was little in there which seemed to agree with
everything he had “known” about the Marketplace. And very little
that had anything to do with everything he had spent so much time
learning at Geoff’s place.

She was not on some special weight-loss
program; apparently no one gave two thoughts about her physical
condition. Oh, she was healthy; her medical reports showed normal
blood pressure and no weakness in her joints or muscles. But she
was just—well—fat. Her required nude photographs were artfully
done, but couldn’t hide the excess flesh of her belly and thighs,
and her big breasts were drawn down. But she was smiling
nonetheless, just a little bashful, but not as glum or somber as he
would have expected her to be in front of a camera and lights.