The Trainer Page 2

  His suitcase was on a rack near the bed, his garment bag hung on the closet door. Joan had shown him the room, given him directions to the bathroom, and left him alone. He had expected that his bags would have been unpacked, at least.

  What a weird system, he thought, pulling his collar straight. Why have slaves in the house and not use them? Using people is the natural talent of a master, his Uncle Niall said.

  If it hadn’t been for Uncle Niall, I wouldn’t be here.

  There were no slaves and masters in the LaGuardia household, unless you counted a dysfunctional aspect or two in one or another family grouping. Nothing but a second and third generation, mixed heritage but all-American, hard-working family, based on the West Coast. Michael had gone to college because it was what everyone he knew did, and had a relatively normal sex life for an American boy, full of experimentation and discovery and the freedom that good looks, a car, and an easygoing personality will give you.

  The family was politically divided on several issues, but generally liberal in many things. The question of whether Uncle Niall was gay wasn’t really discussed as much as it was an unstated fact which had to be accepted. Invitations to him always included “and guest,” and occasionally he did show up with a usually younger and very good looking man as his companion. Once, Michael heard his mother saying to her sister in law, “At least Niall doesn’t flaunt it, dressing in women’s clothing and dancing naked in the streets. You’d never know he was...that way.”

  Michael didn’t think about it much—he had his past experiences with boys and preferred girls, and if Uncle Niall didn’t, it was hardly any of Michael’s business, was it? He just treated Niall like everyone else.

  So when Uncle Niall invited Michael up the coast to his place for a weekend, Michael accepted more out of obligation than interest in spending a weekend with a relative. He packed his swim trunks and sunscreen, expecting to spend most of the time on the beach.

  It was a nice place; small but classy, with huge bay windows that had a view of the ocean, and a long winding path that led to the dunes out back. Uncle Niall was a screenwriter; he did a lot of work for sitcoms and some commercials and a few straight-to-video movies, all of which he thought were outrageously funny. All in all, he was a great guy to hang out with, funny and full of industry gossip. When Michael got there, he was swiftly introduced to Ethan, his uncle’s “companion,” and Jerry, the older man who Niall said “runs the house.” But as soon as hands were shaken, Michael was in his swim gear and heading down to the beach.

  It was a great afternoon—he splashed alone for a while and then stretched out in the sun, loving the illusion that this entire area was his alone. He wondered if Uncle Niall and Ethan ever came down here and swam naked together. Michael had doffed his Speedo a couple of times at clothing optional beaches. He liked the feeling of the water against his genitals, the way his balls felt, tight because of the cold yet sensuously teased by the motion of the waves and the current. He also liked the looks he got when he walked along the beach, his cock swinging. He might not be some tremendous god of a bodybuilder, but hell, they were practically common in Los Angeles.

  Just thinking about it made him pull the trunks off, that first caress of wind and sun enough to stir him tumescent. Yeah, that was better! He ran down to the surf and plunged in again, and laughed with the sheer exuberance of it. This was the life—out where no one could bother you, practically your own private beach—one day, he’d have this. How, he didn’t know, not yet. But one day, somehow, he would.

  He saw Ethan coming down the path just when he was ready to get back into the sun and dry off.

  His first instinct was to blush, because man, to be caught skinny dipping by your uncle’s boyfriend? How embarrassing. But there wasn’t anything to do—the man was going to see Michael’s abandoned trunks next to his sunscreen. Michael sighed and composed himself and began to make his way to shore. When he stepped free of the water, he shook his hair out and tried to act casual.

  Ethan, whose apple-cheeked midwestern origins were betrayed by the slower, almost drawling way he had of speaking, was hardly casual. He gave Michael a long and measuring glance, and Michael found himself doing the same. Because Ethan was not in the jeans and sweater he’d been wearing at the door, but in a thong bikini, his cock a hard mass twisted to one side, clearly visible through the skimpy fabric. He had no hair on his chest or legs, like a competition swimmer, and his nipples were larger than any nipples Michael had ever seen on a man. And they were pierced, too—with heavy, silver-colored rings. Between his pierced nipples hung one of those little plastic cases that floated, someplace to put your change or Chapstick or car keys.

  “Hi,” Michael said lamely.

  “Hi, Mike. Your uncle thought you might like some company.” He flashed a friendly smile.

  “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  “I see you’ve already gotten comfortable,” Ethan continued, motioning to Michael’s crotch. “Maybe I can help you out there.”

  “Huh?” The sunlight was definitely getting to him.

  “You look like you could use a little release, Mike. Would you like a blowjob?” This was said in as casual a way as if Ethan was inviting him back up to the house for lunch. Michael stood silently for a moment, and tried to ignore the urgings of his cock, which definitely did want a blowjob. He struggled not to bring his hands together in front of the anxious organ, and covered his embarrassment verbally instead.

  “Jesus, man, you’re my uncle’s boyfriend!”

  “Sort of,” Ethan admitted.

  “Well, what is that, coming onto me? We’re practically related! What if Uncle Niall found out?” Michael bit his lip; he hadn’t wanted to ask that last question.

  “Mike—he sent me here. It’s no big deal. If you don’t want to, that’s all right, I won’t be insulted. But it looks like you could use one—and I am good.”

  Michael looked up the hill toward the house. It was too far to see, covered by dunes and shrubs. He glanced down at his obviously eager cock, and then across to the man he thought was his uncle’s lover. “Well—okay, sure.”

  “Great!” With that, Ethan led him up the beach, to an area where the sand was soft and warm, and settled him down comfortably. Michael leaned back, still amazed at the offer, but willing to believe that it was real.

  And it was real—every minute of it. Ethan was right, too, he was really good. Excellent, in fact. Better than anyone, girl or guy, that Michael had ever had, even that hooker he picked up on Santa Monica Boulevard one night. He just slurped Michael’s entire cock into his mouth and then settled down to work on it for a good long time.

  This is heaven, Michael thought, throwing his head back. I’m never leaving.

  He tried to hold on to his erection as long as possible, and Ethan helped by varying his speed and strength, and the motions of his head. But soon, the sun and the sand, the overall tightening of the skin on his body, and the wondrous, pulsating pressure on his cock made Michael’s head begin to spin. Without even knowing it, he grabbed onto Ethan’s hair and pulled him tighter into his own crotch, crying out when Ethan pulled back.

  “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.

  Chapter Two

  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 binde
rs 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.”