The Trainer Page 3

  “I see.” Anderson nodded. “And your personal philosophy?”

  “The way I see it, slaves provide service to people who want it. They provide it in a specific way that’s not really encouraged or even legally permitted in most of the world. They do it to get their needs met, but they sign on for the real thing, not just playing around on weekends.” Michael leaned back himself, confident. “Our owners have a right to people who know what they want and are willing to pay a certain price to get it. They’re entitled to well behaved property that fulfills their fantasies and makes their lives easier and more pleasurable. And a good trainer will produce just that—obedient, submissive slaves who are happy to be considered inferior to their masters. Not this ‘co-partners in a social experiment’ thing that Geoff is doing. I think that raises expectations too much.”

  Which was more or less what Anderson had said herself in a special brief she had appended to her notes and articles from the previous year. He untwined his fingers and watched her for reaction. Geoff always glowed when his students repeated his own words back to him.

  She just nodded again. “We’re not doing any social experiment here,” she said. “I train slaves. I train trainers. I provide a service, and that’s the extent of my role. You’re not my usual type of student—you’re new to the Marketplace, and you’ve been unconventionally schooled. So, I expect something extraordinary from you—I want to see a profound level of dedication to the craft and to the process of learning it. I want complete honesty in all things, and I want to hear about any problems or questions you have with my ideas or my methods. I probably won’t give you answers, but you’ll ask anyway. I also want you to keep a journal. I don’t care what you put into it, as long as every day you have something to report about learning. I may not ask to look at it. But if I do ask, you’re gonna turn it over to me immediately. Got that?”

  “Yep.”

  Was that a tiny little sigh coming from Chris Parker? Michael shifted slightly to look at him, but the man had his eyes lowered to the tabletop, where he was examining one of the pages that Anderson had set aside. Michael felt the urge to reach over and grab it away, wondering how the hell this man got the right to read his file.

  “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.

  Chapter Three

  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 a
s glum or somber as he would have expected her to be in front of a camera and lights.

  Also, she had not been recruited, or found, but had entered the system after years of knowing exactly what she was going to do, and how to go about doing it. Not only was his client far more experienced than he, but she had a history that his fellow students at Geoff’s place probably wouldn’t have even believed, let alone been able to deal with.

  Joan was a family retainer. Included with her own documents was a list of other family members currently and formerly in service. The dates went back to the turn of the century, with a note at the bottom which read “Previous files upon permission of the family only.”

  “How far back do the records go?” Michael asked, after turning the tape recorder on.

  Joan was kneeling on the floor opposite him, her hands behind her back. He had decided on that position before she came in, wondering if it would enhance her bosom. It did, nicely. He almost had her strip as well, but decided to save that for later. It wouldn’t make her more interesting for him at this point, and it would be best used as a way to surprise her, since she seemed to go around clothed in this house. No sense in throwing everything into the first interview!

  “The Marketplace records go back to 1856, sir,” she answered promptly, her accent delightful. “But my family has been in service for nine generations.”

  “Nine?” Michael shook his head, amazed. “I didn’t know that the Marketplace had people like that in it. And I thought all that feudal stuff went out with the end of the Dark Ages anyway. I mean, no one really has serfs in England anymore, do they?”