“But—did she...she never really...just handed you off to someone, did she? Anderson? And were you really...sold? I mean—there are no records—you aren’t listed...you were never really sold, right?”
Chris looked down at Michael and caressed his right hand with his left, his face tightly drawn. For a second, Michael was sure he was going to be hit, and hard. But Chris’s eyes shifted away from him for a second, and when they turned back, Michael felt even more ashamed then he was embarrassed. Because the look of pain in Chris Parker’s face was worse than the anger had been.
Chris sighed and waved one hand. “You are dismissed, Michael. I was going to invite you to the debates, but I don’t think you’ve earned that right. Meet me at room five, Western wing, before dinner tonight. Wear a suit. Try not to get into any trouble between now and then.” He turned and walked away.
Michael waited until Chris turned a corner and then sat back onto the polished floor heavily, clenching his hands into fists. His cock was hard, his face unbearably hot. He crossed his legs and buried his face in his hands, wishing he could scream, or punch one of these beautiful walls, or just jump off a damn cliff, anything to free himself from these tightening bands of pressure. Every time he thought he was coming close to understanding, he had one of these episodes. It was like they came on a schedule, exactly in time to make things worse for him.
I wish I knew what I was doing here, he thought wildly. And dammit, I wish Anderson was here. There’s something going on here that’s beyond him and me and I can’t figure out what.
* * * *
There were meditation rooms in a small outbuilding a short walk down one of the marked paths. As Chris stopped to cleanse his hands and face and mouth in the basin set by a small bubbling fountain, he tried to compose himself as he was taught; it came slowly. He removed his shoes and left them outside, and felt the silence of the space coax him toward sleep. But he shook off that wonderful temptation and sank into a kneeling posture on the smooth polished floor, his only company a simply framed print that he thought exhorted him to be like a willow. He had not gotten far in actually reading Japanese, only a few hundred kanji in addition to a more simple forty-seven character syllabary. He was, as Tetsuo’s undertrainer once called him, a dull child in spoken Japanese. But he was a complete idiot in the written forms.
Yet the print spoke to him all the same.
He was unused to sitting like this; out of practice. Not surprising, really. Neither Grendel nor Alexandra had required it of him for longer than a token of his position, and that only rarely. When he had returned from Japan, he had practiced meditation regularly. But like his Japanese, it had faded from his life. He had not even bothered to practice the language when Anderson had a client who was learning it last year; he had judged his own memory too faulty to give her the proper examples in speech.
Odd how some of it had returned last night.
He had finished the sake, feeling the faint warmth of it flowing down his throat, and then looked at Tetsuo, who was staring at him in that familiar, penetrating way that made him so damn sexy. Chris almost replied automatically, saying the words he had said on those few occasions before when people had come close to figuring out how he fit into the scheme of things, but then simply bowed his head with a sigh. “How long have you known, Sensei?”
“I am glad you didn’t feel the need to deny it,” Tetsuo said, showing his pleasure.
“Oh, I feel the need,” Chris said, with a slight smile. “But I would never insult you like that.”
“Thank you. In answer to your question, I have not really known, not in fact. I have deduced this, from the years of our association.” Tetsuo poured more for his guest and then set the bottle down carefully. “I know you, Chris Parker. And I know Anderson-sensei. There are many mysteries of your life that I have been given the favor of knowing; this was the one remaining. How was it that one who was so suited to a life of service was not secure in someone’s collar? At first, I considered that you had decided against it for...pragmatic reasons. Later on, as you completed your training and remained a trainer yourself, I considered that you had forgone the auction out of gratitude to your Sensei, to serve her as so many of us do, forgoing the simpler temptation of the collar.”
“That is often assumed,” Chris nodded. He refilled Tetsuo’s cup, since it was clear that they were not to be interrupted by the slave any more. It would be impolite for either of them to refill their own cups.
“To go through the formal training and then to give it up for a collar would be a grave waste of her time and efforts, but you would hardly be the first nor the last,” Tetsuo said. “But the truth of the matter is that she owns you, and that is how she compels your continued service as a trainer. You have belonged to her since before we met, I assume.”
Chris nodded again. “Yes, Sensei.”
“You are to be noted for your fortune, Chris Parker. The Trainer who owns no slaves has placed her mark upon you in more ways than one.” Tetsuo lifted his cup gently, and Chris took up his own. He sipped the warm liquid in honor of his trainer and owner.
“I have been...touched by fortune...in many ways, Sensei,” he said, as he placed the cup back on the table. “But I must ask you, Sensei, with all respect; since you do know, why are you discussing this with me?”
“Because you can ask that question and expect an answer,” Tetsuo said, with a look of satisfaction. He leaned back slightly, stretching. “Changes are coming, far greater ones than even the one you propose this week.” His eyes smiled, slight crinkles that reminded Chris of the deep sense of humor this man had, and how rarely he allowed it to show. “I honor my House and my Sensei with my life and deeds, but I am not blind. In order to maintain my position in this world, my own House must grow and expand. Having you as a trainer in my House will aid my program of expansion.”
Chris said nothing; it would be hard to come up with anything that didn’t sound like completely false modesty or smug pride. Besides, Tetsuo had not answered the question yet.
Tetsuo snorted appreciatively. “I discuss it with you, Chris Parker,” he said, leaning forward again, “for the joy of surprising you. For a youngster, you are often world-weary, cynical, too assured of your place under heaven. I am sure I was not the only one in your life who enjoyed shaking you from your calm acceptance of your circumstances.”
Astonishingly, Chris felt the pleasurable warmth of embarrassment spread through him. He couldn’t bring himself to blame the sake.
“I have never forgotten training you,” Tetsuo said thoughtfully. “At the start, your very presence was only suffered because of my long friendship and respect for Sensei Anderson. I expected you to leave, to fail, to break. And after Noriko...” He sighed, and Chris lowered his head again, this time closing his eyes for a moment. They let the name waver in the air between them, acknowledging their shared past, and Tetsuo’s great loss.
“After Noriko, I realized that having you at my service had given me greater ease than I could have assumed possible. I do enjoy shocking you, Chris Parker. I enjoy it now as much as I did years ago. I also enjoyed your small rebellions and your great disobediences. I enjoyed making your will bend to mine. It is a rare slave that catches my attention in these ways, and I find I miss having such a diversion for longer than it takes to place a new client into the Marketplace. I am not like my respected colleague, Sensei Anderson. I own with pleasure. It would please me to own you.
“So I discuss it with you because I know that valuable property such as you cannot be held lightly. I would not have you unaware; that is a test for novices. I already know that you would mount the auction tables and go willingly and serve with honor. That would be the greatest surprise for you, would it not? And from that moment, your experiences would diminish.”
“I don’t know that,” Chris said quietly. “Since I have not experienced the auction block.”
“You are experiencing it now,” Tetsuo said casually. “Your new... form, your mod
ern haircut, your tailored suit, none of these things hide your essence from me. Your throat is bound with silk instead of chain, but we both know where the true mark of your ownership lies. We sit here as proper men, sharing sake as friends, but you have not forgotten my rule, at least I do not think so.”
“No, Sensei, I have not,” Chris admitted.
“Then do not be fooled, Chris Parker. You are here as an independent trainer, honored by your peers, leader in an honorable struggle for order, yes. But you are also here displaying your worth. If I can see how it is you come to be here, you must realize that there are trainers much wiser than I. Who can say which of them are assessing your value as we speak? Who among them might also be wondering how to acquire you in one way or another? As these hours and days pass, I will begin my negotiations with Sensei Anderson, whether she comes here or not. You are Merchandise, young trainer. Merchandise I have decided to acquire.” Tetsuo stretched again and smiled, his eyes sharp with a sudden pleasure. “Aside from that, I have taken the liberty of reserving a bath-house, and I am all consumed with curiosity about this campaign of physical fitness and art of the body upon which you have embarked. I cannot compel you by rights, but I can invite you as a friend, and a former student, to bathe with me. Can you do this, or must you retire?”
“More surprises?” Chris asked, raising one eyebrow.
Tetsuo laughed, a warm sound in the warm room. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I don’t think I can still surprise you with a bamboo rod, so I must find other ways.” He turned and barked an order. Two slaves entered instantly, both of them male this time, wearing only fundoshis. They carried light robes and as Tetsuo stood, one of them instantly went to him to take his jacket. Tetsuo loosened his dark, narrow tie, never taking his gaze from Chris. It was still an invitation—but the sheer force of his request was almost like a command. As he unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes seemed to be almost teasing; I am ready for you, they said. I dare you.
After a moment, Chris also stood, and held his arms slightly back, feeling the weight of the jacket slide into waiting hands. As he reached for his own tie, he felt a familiar ache. He wanted it to be natural and comfortable, he wanted to be as free as this older man and strip with ease, but it was still hard to shed the armor, even when he saw Tetsuo’s eyes slightly widen in pleasure. He stood with the robe open for an extra moment, the slave stopped in mid-motion by Tetsuo’s hand, and then found that he needed a longer breath when the belt was finally wrapped around him and tied. But Tetsuo said nothing, only grunted when they were both ready to go.
They walked to the bath-house with the two slaves following behind, leaving the empty sake bottle and the elegant wooden box on the table.
By the time Chris returned to his room, Michael was gently snoring on his futon. It was almost dawn. His body longed for sleep, but instead he wrote a brief note to his student, changed into fresh clothing, and found an empty meeting room to review his notes and plan his day. It was so tempting to try to call the States and confess, or to simply slip away and leave the entire gathering to its own devices.
Of course he didn’t do either. He went to his meetings and he started his lobbying and now he had to stand up and address his peers. Peers, hell. His superiors. His teachers, his models. And at least one old master.
Chris opened his eyes and looked at the print again. He didn’t feel rested. But he did feel a little like a willow.
“Caught in a tai-fun,” he said out loud. He stood up, feeling and hearing a slight crack in his knees, and slowly left the room to go to the debates.
Chapter Seven: In Exile
Michael tried not to look like he was moping. But it was hard. Everyone—or at least all the trainers and spotters—were closed off in the large meeting room to begin the most important discussions of the week, a proposal presented by his own damn Trainer, and he wasn’t allowed to go.
Not only that, but apparently his old trainer, Geoff Negel, was the chief opponent to this accreditation program that Chris wanted to create. What an opportunity, to see those two butt heads in this formal atmosphere! Chris had never forgiven Geoff for granting trainer status to a fellow Californian who had placed a dishonest slave in the same household that Chris had a former client in. There had been some stupid mix up, the ill-trained slave either stole or just hid some jewelry, and Chris’s client got blamed for it and brutally punished. Chris had actually flown out to California to intervene and set things right, and when he got back, told Michael that it was trainers like Geoff who were responsible for everything short of global warming.
After Chris had cooled off over the incident and Michael felt safe about bringing the topic up again, he had asked Chris why, if Geoff Negel’s methods were so sloppy, was the trainer so successful?
“How do you measure success?” Chris had asked.
“Number of sales versus number of returns,” Michael answered.
“That’s the fallacy then,” Chris said. “It’s not the number of sales that makes you successful—I can find someone every other week and manage to sell them to someone else. It’s the success rate of the actual contracts that we have to measure.”
“What’s the difference?”
They had been out riding. Michael had only ridden in Western saddles before, mostly beach trail rides, and Chris wanted him to have some experience with the English style. So, he was sitting somewhat gingerly on the tiny saddle with his knees bent, his elbows tight, and his heels back, feeling self-conscious and trying not to show it by carrying on a casual conversation.
“What’s a better deal, Michael—a car that you have to trade in every two years, or a car that will run for ten?”
“The one that lasts longer, of course.”
“The same thing applies to slaves.” Chris looked comfortable in his saddle, moving naturally with the horse, using his hands to gesture freely. “If the slave is motivated enough, a two-year contract is not much to ask. In fact, many of them barely realize that two years have gone by when you call them to ask if they are interested in renewing. If slave and owner have been well matched, they will both want to renew, and there is a good chance that the renewal will be for a longer period as well. That was how we measured success; not by the first sale, but by the first renewal. And the ones thereafter, of course. The ultimate success is a lifetime contract, but that’s also considered pretty rare.”
Michael digested that; it seemed reasonable. “But,” he said cautiously, tugging on his reins to keep his mount from breakfasting on some clover, “some people lease cars because they want a new one every three years. So some owners might not want a slave for ten years or more.”
“Good!” Chris nodded encouragingly, and turned his horse to one side so he could comfortably face Michael. His horse stepped sideways with a snort of annoyance, but obeyed. “Yes, there are owners—and slaves—who prefer short-term contracts. And that is where Mr. Negel has established the majority of his trade.”
“But he’s successful at that, then,” Michael said. “It’s just like having a specialty.”
“Not exactly. Here, we train novices for general use. So by Marketplace guidelines, we generally don’t write contracts for more than two years. But we assume that the customers will want more and the slaves themselves are looking forward to a long time in service. If the same client can’t seem to renew a contract with several owners in a row, we have to examine why. There are a lot of reasons why an owner will keep an otherwise unsuitable slave for the duration of their contract, not the least of which is sentimentality. But if more than, say, two owners don’t express an interest in renewing a contract with the same client, then we ask for in-depth interviews with them to discover the root of their dissatisfaction. And then, we will examine the client in question to make sure they should go back to the block.”
“But what if things just didn’t work out?’ Michael asked. “It happens all the time in the soft world, and that’s where you have the advantage of dating and engagements and living together
and all the ways people get to know each other first. Buying someone off the block can’t possibly end up in long-lasting relationships all the time.”
“Owning a slave and marrying someone is not the same thing,” Chris said with a slight smile. “At least, not in this day and age. With the exception of companion slaves, owners want a particular service performed, and will generally be satisfied if it is. Slaves likewise crave a system in which to serve and not necessarily become a best friend and lover to share the covers with. You can never account for personal taste, of course, and some of the best slaves may end up with several owners before finding a situation that is mutually suitable.
“But what Geoff Negel is creating—and selling—are slaves who are not prepared for service of more than two years. They fulfill their initial contracts and move on, either to another two-year contract with a new owner—or an even shorter one!—or they leave altogether. And since leaving the Marketplace is not counted as a failure, he seems to be a success.”
Michael thought about that for a minute, continuing his battle with the dumb horse, who was determined to sample every bush they passed, and trying not to get distracted by Chris’s handsome riding boots.
“I—I don’t think that’s fair,” he said finally. “Other people’s clients must leave the Marketplace after one contract, too. Maybe it wasn’t right for them. But if they fulfill their contracts and then leave and there are no complaints, that isn’t a failure.”
“You are right, from the strictly technical perspective. But we can’t survive on two-year slaves who pop into the Marketplace to ‘see if they like it’ and then leave, taking with them the knowledge of our existence and our methods and leaving nothing behind. Neither should we allow people to be called ‘trainers’ when their experience is constrained to preparing someone for such a limited relationship. Yet Mr. Negel registers more new trainers than any other trainer of his level in the United States. What’s more to the point, he registers more owners.”
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