The Trainer (8 page)

Michael stirred under the covers and
stretched. God, was it morning already? He rolled over to check the
digital reading on the clock. Yep—fifteen more minutes until
wake-up. Not enough time to go back to sleep. Just enough time for
a quickie, though—but no one to sheet-wrestle with.

He threw himself onto his back in
frustration. Damn, a man gets used to things when he has them every
day. I have to stop thinking about it, he counseled himself. It’s
only sex.

Yeah, right.

Well, enough self-pity. Out of bed, and into
the shower, it’s another wacky day at the Anderson home.

Dressing also made him pause. His usual
clothing consisted of pull-over shirts and light sweaters and
jeans—leather pants when weather permitted. Boots, unless he was
wearing the latest designer running shoes.

But Parker wore a damn shirt and tie every
fucking day, as far as he could tell. Maybe he should, too? Except
that he only had two dress shirts and two ties with him. It could
get pretty boring.

Boring being the operative word. Three days
had gone by, and he had gotten little or no access to his training
slave. Instead, Anderson had him reading and taking notes, making
outlines and studying the household schedule. He had thought that
the lengthy lecture he received on interview techniques and
following instructions had been punishment enough for messing up
Joan’s interview. That, and the shame of having her stop the tape
and grill him on why he asked the few questions he did. But no, his
real punishment was having his client taken away from him until he
learned what to do with her. Not that it was exactly spelled out
that way, but it was clear what was going on.

He was never invited to sit in with Anderson
when she took one of the girls into her office, and found himself
incensed when he realized that Parker had his little sessions with
them as well. He found Chris drilling Joan one day, Joan seated at
the dining room table blindfolded. At once, Michael’s heart beat
wildly—a blindfold was the kinkiest thing he had seen used since he
had arrived, and he stopped as he was passing by the door to gaze
at the scene, half-thrilled and half-scared at the prospect of
being shooed away like a curious toddler who found his parents
necking.

But Chris didn’t even seem to notice him. He
was leaning forward and holding something toward Joan’s face, and
Michael slid further along the doorway to see what it was.

It was a cup. Joan sniffed the contents and
said, confidently, “Oh, that one’s Lapsang Souchong!”

Michael blinked as Chris took the cup away
and jotted something down on his clipboard. “Excellent, Joan,
perfect marks. You may remove the blindfold.”

The slave did so, saying, “Thank you,
Chris.”

“You’re very welcome. Clear all of this up,
and why not brew some of the Lapsang for the Trainer? She’ll take
it in the office.”

“Yes, Chris, of course.” As she rose from
her chair, Michael almost ran from the doorway, but he held himself
still as Chris’s eyes turned up toward him. The senior trainer said
nothing, though. What was there to say?

Oh yes, and Michael also had the distinct
pleasure of watching Parker handle a little disciplinary problem
with a heavy leather strap, how exciting. Tara was a sight to see,
though, her skirts hiked up, her pretty ass bared, her face
streaked with tears. Parker had a steady, unerring hand, and that
brutal strap colored her up nicely—and yet there was no sexiness
about it, no overlaying miasma of sex-to-come, that weight of SM
sensuality. Michael had ached to take those red cheeks in his hands
and knead them, the way all trainers were encouraged to at Geoff’s,
to stroke the inflamed flesh, and take pleasure in the how the
slave reacted with whimpers and small gasps of pleasure and pain.
To hear their breathless thanks, the shame-filled pleas for
forgiveness. To pull on a condom and have them spread open—

It was only sex. Uh-huh.

But Parker didn’t screw the dickens out of
Tara when he was through. He simply accepted a brief kiss on his
boot, and then sent her away, looking as though nothing
particularly special had occurred.

“Isn’t that kind of cold?” Michael had asked
Anderson later on.

“Punishment is not supposed to be fun,” she
had replied.

“Yes, I know—but what about for the trainer?
For the owner? Shouldn’t we get something out of this?”

“The satisfaction of a job well done?” She
looked a little over his shoulder for a moment and then sighed.
“Tomorrow, I want you to work with Vicente for a little while—he
needs an extra pair of hands.”

With Vicente—the non-slave
cook/housekeeper/whatever. There was no understanding what was
going on around here! And no one to ask. Michael had reported to
Vicente, expecting to get a run-down on household time schedules or
something like that, but instead wound up going shopping. Yep—the
dark skinned man handed him a list, a set of car keys, and
directions to a local supermarket. There was also some dry cleaning
to pick up.

Michael steamed at a steady rate as he ran
through the list, crashing his cart more than once against innocent
corner displays in the market. Some training this was! He cursed
out loud as he loaded the car, and all the way to the dry cleaners.
But he was composed by the time he came back—cheerful, even.

It was just helping out, that was all! He
had decided that there had been nothing intentionally insulting in
Anderson’s request—after all, he was an extra hand in the house,
why shouldn’t he pitch in? He was taking it all wrong—and being
unfair to the Trainer. I’m on the fucking edge, he thought,
chastising himself and glad that no one saw his temper tantrums. I
gotta calm down, chill out. Being asked to chip in was part of
being made you a member of the household instead of being treated
like a guest. Now, perhaps, there would be some attention paid to
making him more of a trainer.

But when he got back, Vicente only directed
him to start putting things away—and Tara “helped” him. She was too
busy actually cooking to do anything but directed him to where
things went. After the last bag was empty, Vicente thanked him, and
told him that he was free for the rest of the day.

“Great! Glad to help. Where’s the
Trainer?”

“Oh, she is not to be disturbed,” the big
man said. “There are no duties—you may do what you like until
tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow?” Michael’s voice started to
scale up, and he fought it down to a more proper, controlled level.
“That was it for me today? Shopping?”

Vicente looked around as though searching
for another task. Tara kept her eyes down as she diced carrots for
soup. “There is nothing, Mr. Michael,” Vicente smiled. “Not until
dinner, when you will be wanted to eat, hm?”

“Thanks,” Michael muttered, leaving the
kitchen. Great. Alone in a strange town, no wheels, no place to go,
and he was free for the rest of the day. Shit, there wasn’t even a
TV in the whole house! Well, that wasn’t true, there was a small
one in a cabinet in the office, which was mainly for watching
videos of other trainers and occasional sale catalogs. Anderson did
not get cable.

He kept running into Joan, which made it
even more annoying that he wasn’t continuing the interview process
and overseeing her training the way he was supposed to. She always
curtsied when she saw him, and faint blushes touched her cheeks. He
wondered if she had laughed at his predicament. It made him want to
slap her just out of principle. And make her suck him again, this
time to completion, and to hell with Parker’s opinion on whether
she’d be used like that! Another trainer, one of the European ones,
had once written: “A slave having witnessed the humiliation of a
master is a tarnished servant and must be reminded of their place
before they can regain any luster.”

Michael was positive that Anderson did not
agree with that assessment, but he certainly did. At least he did
now. Topping Joan in a lengthy scene, with nipple clamps and whips
and paddles and tight bondage would be just the right thing. Tie
those big tits up tight, make her wince with pain, and get all red
from the shame of having them stuck out for everyone to see and
fondle. He’d work her hard, make her cry and beg his forgiveness,
beg to suck him or anything else he wanted. If he were back in
California, he’d make a fucking example of her. Get another trainer
to help, maybe. Or, two. Fill all three holes, how would you like
that for sexual use, huh? Then he’d feel better. And there’d be a
little less doubt that she respected him, too.

These thoughts did not console him long. In
fact, he found that dwelling on the matter made him feel even more
frustrated, and at one point, he thought, oh, what’s the use? I
need to live under these new rules. I have to learn what the hell
it is about this style that makes it so special. I can always go
back to the things that worked at Geoff’s later on. When I have my
own place, maybe, or when I join some more relaxed house
somewhere.

One day at chores became two, and then
three. In fact, the third day was the most interesting; he got his
first exposure to the New York City Subway system, taking the train
into Manhattan to pick up some CDs Anderson had ordered from Tower
Records. Again, Vicente gave him the errand, and this time advised
him to take as long as he liked doing it. “Enjoy yourself,” he said
cheerfully. “Go and look in the stores.” His accent continued to be
a mystery—it seemed faintly Hispanic, but nothing like the Mexican
rhythms Michael had known back in LA. Mike wanted to ask about it,
but never felt that the time was right to ask. Besides, you never
knew how sensitive people were going to be about an innocent
question.

But meanwhile, he was being sent off to shop
like some nitwit valley girl. Well, he did need some new shirts
anyway—and maybe a few ties. Spending most of the day in Soho and
the East Village lightened his mood for a while, but as he studied
the subway map to find his way back to Brooklyn during the rush
hour, he began to feel a nervousness in the pit of his stomach that
was vaguely nauseating.

I’m not being given a chance, he complained
inwardly, steeling himself to the rocking motion of the train and
idly looking at the skyline. How can I do anything right if she
won’t let me do anything at all? I have to ask her what’s wrong,
that’s all, and insist that I be given a proper opportunity to
prove myself.

Resolved to do that, he sprang up the steps
to the house with an energy he hadn’t felt since the first day he
arrived. He deposited the CDs with Vicente and ran upstairs to
change for dinner. He even showered first, shaving and combing his
hair before slipping into one of his crisp new shirts. It was
powder blue with a spread collar, and he had gotten a brightly
colored, stylish tie. Yes, very sharp. He hummed as he came down
the stairs, and nearly ran into Anderson as she was coming out of
her office.

“Good evening, Mike,” she said, shifting a
sheaf of papers in her arms. “How nice you look.”

He beamed. “Thanks, Trainer. Listen, could
we talk for a moment before dinner?”

She nodded and pushed the office door open
again. He held it for her and then followed her in. “I got your
music today,” he said.

“Thank you. And yet, why don’t I think
that’s what you wanted to chat about?”

“I’ll come to the point,” Michael said
quickly, wishing he’d dropped the small talk. “What’s on my mind
is—well, I’ve been thinking—”

“The point, Mike?”

He charged ahead. “It’s not fair what you’re
doing to me. You’re not giving me a chance to work, and I want to
know why.”

Anderson’s eyes opened a little wider at the
tone of his voice, but she didn’t even bother to lay her papers
down. She just shook her head and leaned one hip against the edge
of her desk. “I believe I told you that I’m not going to be telling
you why I do anything, Mike. I’m the Trainer and you’re the
student—you figure it out.”

“But—if I’m the student, shouldn’t I be
learning things? I mean, shouldn’t you be teaching me something?
I’m glad to help, don’t get me wrong, but what does running errands
have to do with slave training?”

“Why, that’s another good question, Mike,”
Anderson said with a slight, slight smile. Her eyes were rigidly
cold, though. “Apply yourself to it, why don’t you?”

Michael stopped himself from saying that he
didn’t know, but no new answers came to him. He stared at her, eye
to eye, and felt a weird, prickling sensation, like he had said
something wrong again, or that she was asking something of him in
some secret language he couldn’t understand. What have I done now?
he thought wildly. Or, what should I be doing? There was an air of
expectation around her, something she was waiting for, and the
anger at not knowing what to say burst through him.

“How the hell am I supposed to figure it out
if you don’t say anything to me?” he snapped. “You don’t even give
me a clue! It’s not fair!”

“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t—but we’re
not on a playground here, buckaroo. Complaining that something’s
not fair ain’t gonna get you nothin’. You either keep up, or you
fail. There’s a reason why you’re all alone here. Think about it.”
She indicated that he open the door, and when he did, passed him on
her way upstairs. Over her shoulder, she said casually, “Please
tell Mr. Parker that I’ll be down later on to work with Tara. I
won’t be eating dinner with you boys tonight.”

How could things go from bad to worse so
quickly? Michael waited until he was calm again before he left the
room. It took a few minutes. He struggled with the urge to head
upstairs, toss his suitcase on the bed, and call the fucking
airport for the first flight home. But there’s no turning back, he
reminded himself. Back home is nothing.