Naturally, Anderson was pretty pissed, as I am sure you are as well. I sent her a letter too, after she hung up on me twice. But we talked again last night, and she said that it was better I figured it out now than wasted some owner’s time and money, and boy, is she right. I hope you see it that way too.
So, I made up a resume and I think that Claire’s dad will pull a few strings and get me a job down at the studio he runs. I figure my Communications degree will finally come in handy, right? And we set a date for the fall. I’ll send you an invitation, although I guess you wouldn’t come even if you could. I’m so sorry. I keep writing that, and I wish I could give you one of those perfect apologies you were always on me about, in person.
You made a difference in me, Chris. I hope you know that. I think you made me a better man. No, I know it. And even though I let you and Anderson down, I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. It seems you were right all the time. I was not made to be a trainer, or even a slave.
But you know what? My new in-laws said that they’d give us a slave or down payment on a house or a co-op for a wedding present. So I just might become a slave owner! Now, that’s funny.
Your friend,
Michael “Dingo” LaGuardia
* * * *
Chris sighed and folded the letter up and put it back in the envelope. He flipped open his calendar and wrote in a small note to remind himself to send a gift. Then he got up and stretched, and went to find Jiro and start the training day. When Tetsuo came down, all the slaves would be prepared and arrayed for his inspection and the trainers would be tightly in control and everything would be perfection.
Inside Straight
Marcy Teodor squinted at her junior trainer over morning coffee and gave him the best glower she could manage. To his credit, Stuart didn’t shrug or pull one of his cute “aww, come on boss,” postures and smiles. They could be remarkably effective, especially when combined with late nights, luxury surroundings, and not enough coffee.
At least it was good coffee, strong and heavily lashed with cream. Coming from Seattle made a person very serious about coffee. Marcy had considered the traditional ryokan room for all of about five minutes before deciding on the western-style hotel wing of the Shimada resort. The Academy was stressful enough, and more so this year with the Parker proposal and Stuart on display. Adding the details of living in such a different setting was just a wasteful extravagance; she was no expert in Japanese culture and Stuart would have more than enough to keep him occupied in student mode.
Or, perhaps not.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” she said bluntly, curling her legs up on the curved sofa, digging her toes into the velvety, tan microfiber. The room was decorated in warm sunrise colors, from light caramel to golden pine all accented with stark black trim and tabletops. Despite their odd hours, she’d never seen any of the cleaning staff. But somehow, whenever the room was vacant, it was cleaned, freshened, or improved. Fresh flowers and fruit and tiny gourmet chocolates appeared at different times of the day. And just yesterday, she came back to the room with a small headache and found a carafe of coffee waiting for her on a tray.
It was enough to make a trainer weep with envy. One day, she promised herself. Maybe this year, I’ll have just the right trainee to recommend. Everyone knows it’ll be in Canada next year, and how perfect would that be, taking one of my slaves to serve at the Academy right up the coast? It was a good thought, a great fantasy.
She turned her attention to her troublesome trainee and sighed. In her moment of musing, he had waited patiently and she felt almost annoyed that he’d noticed she was woolgathering and didn’t try to respond to her challenge.
“I don’t train that way,” she said, after another sip. “I’d have to send you to someone else.”
Stuart nodded. “I understand that, ma’am.”
“I don’t think you really do. There’s a reason why it’s fallen out of favor, and it’s not just because it’s hard. I know, you’ve been hearing everyone’s old training stories about their big, bad master trainers and it all sounds like something romantic and impossible like one of those big magic swords and elves books you like so much. But in reality, it means your service is taken for years, kiddo. No outlines, no planning sessions, just obedience and submission and damn few boundaries.”
He nodded eagerly, tawny hair falling over his high forehead and over his china-blue eyes. Lord, but he was pretty, Marcy thought. Pity I’m not into little pretty boys...
Oh, that was a thought. She eyed him in speculation. “You see some of these slaves here and Parker’s trainee looking like they can read minds and it all seems like something you can just learn, like how to cut or how to whip. It’s not that easy, Stu. And you can serve a trainer for years and still not figure out what it takes, and then what do you have? Wasted years and nothing to show for it.”
“It won’t be wasted, Marcy,” he said with confidence. “I know I can do it!”
“Well, then.” Marcy stood and handed him her empty cup to refill. “Show me. Kurgan is having his big blow-out tonight, every pleasure slave here will probably be on duty for him. Go to his orgy and pick out a pleasure slave for me.”
Stuart poured coffee and added cream, and she could almost feel his mind whirling with a thousand questions. But he limited himself to a good one. “Do you have any preferences, to help me select the right one?”
“I’ll answer three questions,” she offered generously.
“What use do you have in mind for the slave?”
“Fucking.” She grinned. “Someone with a working, attached cock.” She liked the way Stuart looked when he blushed, although broadcasting his feelings like that was a continual source of embarrassment for him.
But he nodded quickly and asked, “Are there any other physical attributes you would prefer?”
“Big, strong... I want someone who exudes manliness, if possible.”
Stuart paused and considered his last question. Then he grinned. “What time do you want him to show up, and where?”
“I’ll take him delivered here, and before midnight. That should give you about two, maybe three hours to find the right one.” Or all day, if you can find the time to do the research, smart boy. Making the goal slave not like Stuart served two purposes. First, it might actually pan out and she could find herself swinging from the rafters with some excellent pleasure slave service. Marcy enjoyed hurting Stuart, had used him sexually a few times just because she could, and dammit, it was part of how she was trained. But he simply was not her type.
Stuart looked like a boy, talked and walked and smelled like a boy. (Including his fondness for the trendy scents being marketed to young men; thank goodness she’d stopped him from dousing himself with the stuff on a regular basis.) But ultimately, the best he could be was a cute, skinny, and pretty dickless boy. Oh, he had a cock; had a few, in fact. And Marcy had nothing against dildos per se, enjoying them with or without a lover from time to time. But it was damn inconvenient sometimes, to be straight enough to want a more conventional man with a sizable cock that came factory-equipped. And to enjoy getting fucked in a world that sometimes seemed to equate that act with submission was just frustrating. Granted, most of her colleagues in the training business knew better. But there was a whole universe out there that didn’t.
Stuart did not belong to the deluded greater culture; to him, sex was sex and what you did wasn’t nearly as important as why you did it. But Marcy knew he wished she saw him just as desirable as a man born with his own penis, or at least one much longer and thicker than what he had. Not so much because he lusted for her; all trainees got into different stages of love, lust, or worship of their trainers at some point. But he would prefer her to see him for the man he was, and not someone “lacking.”
Well, tough shit, kiddo, she thought, enjoying the moment of cruelty and regretting it at the same time. Go out and find me someone who is not like you at all, know he’s for my pleasure
, and get it right. Because the second reason you have this little assignment is to see if you can find the perfect slave for me. Parsing the essential nature, desires, and limits of others was important in any trainer, but required in a master trainer.
Then we’ll see if you really have what it takes to be classically trained. She’d worry about who the hell to send him to if he delivered.
* * * *
Stuart kept his confident smile until he was dismissed and then ducked into the bathroom to wash his face and get control over his shakes. Jesus! Why not just kick me in the nuts while you’re at it, Marcy, he snarled to himself. He ran his hands through his hair, brushing the long strands back from his forehead. Early on in his transition, he’d gotten short haircuts, and soon realized that had been a mistake. With his dark-gold hair trimmed short, his face looked even more delicate and girlish; he was most often mistaken for a lesbian. But encouraged to grow and cut with a style somewhat reminiscent of teenage-girl pop stars, now his hair actually served his identity better with locks falling all over the place. He gazed at himself in the mirror and sighed.
She did kick me, he admitted. Right in my theoretical balls. What was it about her that made her so capable of being a friendly, sexy, best-friend-mentor one second and then go right for his weakest spots when she wanted him off balance?
And how do I do that?
Training slaves was the single most exciting thing he’d ever done in his life. Granted, he wasn’t that old, and looked even younger. But since the day he enjoyed sharing a slave with his buddy Arcane and the hairy behemoth of a man mentioned how well she’d been trained, Stuart knew that was what he wanted to do. Hell, it was who he wanted to be! To work with such amazing people, to mold them and teach them how to be everything they imagined they could seemed more like a calling than a job. Never mind that he was in the midst of his transition at the time, and finishing his post-grad work at that. Arcane was an owner, but he was willing to introduce Stuart to Marketplace professionals, tickled that his friend had such an interest. Stuart steadily applied himself to learning as much as he could before approaching five different trainers in the hopes one would take him on as an apprentice.
Three said he needed to finish up his surgery and degree and then come back. One said he wasn’t suitable. Marcy told him to go find her a particular bottle of wine, recommendations on a museum, restaurant, and performance to take her parents to when they came to visit Seattle in a few weeks and a three-month-old issue of Sports Illustrated.
It had been a strange but easy test. He logged onto Usenet and found a group of wine enthusiasts and they were happy to tell him he could get this particular wine at several stores in his area. Why should he have to wander all over town or spend hours on the phone when the Internet provided thousands of people willing to do the looking for him? Another query went out to city-area boosters; he matched their recommendations against a quick call to the tourism bureau of the greater Seattle area and narrowed the choices down with a call to the director of programming at a senior services center. Then he picked up the magazine and went back over to her sprawling home to turn over his finds.
She’d accepted everything without comment, just nodding. Then she took the magazine and smiled as she examined the mailing label. Stuart only had to visit three old-fashioned barbershops before he found the exact issue, and the owner laughed when Stuart offered to pay for it.
“Give me your complete schedule for the next three months,” she said, tossing the magazine back to him. “You’re busy, but you’re going to make sure you are never late or looking sloppy when I tell you to show up. Stop going to your leather club. From now on, it’s Marketplace or nothing. You call me ma’am, Trainer, or Marcy and you’ll eventually figure out when one is better than the other. And since you’re one of those computer nerds, can you get mine to stop crashing every other fucking day? That’ll be your first job.”
And that had been it. Before long, he was running her errands, learning her preferences, and slowly starting to understand how much work he had ahead of him. She tried not to have more than two slaves in training at the same time, but even with one, he discovered just how complicated and personalized training had to be. When three slaves were in residence—well, three wannabe slaves at any rate—he averaged four hours of sleep a night and drilled until he was positive he could step in and get himself auctioned off with no problem.
He immediately understood the need for his learning to serve before teaching others—he’d learned programming languages with less of a lifespan of usefulness than the body language of subservience. And as for role-playing... well, he’d had a life of doing that, hadn’t he?
“You really don’t have an issue with playing my slave,” Marcy had said once to him, blunt as always, her eyes sharp as they examined him. She was a tall woman, taller than he was and athletically stocky; just enough out of his preferences in terms of body to keep his eyes on hers most of the time. “That’s rare. A lot of trainers have way too much invested in personal ego to bend, even as students. Tell me why you’re so accepting.”
“It’s just temporary,” Stuart said, smiling. “It’s not who I am, but I wasn’t a girl, either, and I found a way to pretend that when I had to.”
Marcy nodded. “OK, fair enough. But what else?”
He had squirmed a little then, knowing his answer was going to sound like the worst kind of suck-up. “Well... I think you’re a great trainer. And I wanna be a great trainer. If this is how to do it? I trust you. A few hours on my knees or doing shit work won’t kill me.”
She smiled, slight wrinkles forming at the sides of her dark eyes. “Good. Flexibility and trust are more important than ego, any day. And it’s hard enough to keep up with you without having to wrestle with some bullshit you-can’t-do-this-to-me-I’m-a-master whining.”
No, he wasn’t a whiner. At least not too much and not out loud. Even so, she’d realized he was missing something when he cut ties to much of his non-Marketplace social circles. Once she accepted him as her full-time apprentice, he quit his lucrative job and walked away from anything resembling free time, devoting himself to finishing his master’s degree and becoming a slave trainer and seeing to his health. That meant he cut out the time spent at bars and clubs and sex and play parties (looking for chicks who could get into men like him) and the one peer/support group meeting he went to by choice.
He didn’t realize that Marcy noticed his complete lack of a social life and peer groups; or, if he’d given it any thought, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that she cared. Seeing that he went to a loosely defined support group or darts night at The Manacle was not her job as long as he took care of his responsibilities. But one day she tossed him an envelope with a return address from New York. “Ken Mandarin says this guy could be helpful to you. Treat him with respect; he’s an ace trainer. If you don’t want to chat him up, that’s your choice, but I’d recommend it.”
It was a letter from Chris Parker, introducing himself and offering to correspond with him over issues around identity, transitioning, and making his way in the Marketplace world. And slowly his life somehow became more complete, leading up to this weekend where he could finally meet Parker, look into those wise, dark-tobacco eyes, and thank him.
And then get kicked by the man and used like some sort of kinky adult toy in a sex show with Parker’s own apprentice, the beautiful Michael, and Ken Mandarin’s matched set of slaves as well!
Not my thing, but man, it was hot, Stuart reflected. His cock had no conscience—no matter how much Stuart wanted girls, lusted after girls, mooned over them, and beat off thinking about them, with the right stimulation, his cock would come for almost anybody! As it had when Michael sucked him off. Embarrassing, sometimes, to be a guy.
And limiting! Everyone knew the ideal trainer was a bisexual switch; someone who could take on all comers, men, women, transfolk, tops, bottoms, you-name-it. That way they could see what was attractive—and what was lacking—in anyon
e. They could rate the service of any mouth, any hole, any skill set. They would serve their own trainers with devotion and loyalty and gratitude, then turn around and terrorize their own trainees or clients with equal glee.
“Not that I am one of those lucky people,” Marcy admitted to him at one point. “Tried to be, though. Sadly, I just wasn’t built for bottoming or for the ladies, however diverting the experience. OK, I’ll be frank, sometimes obeying my trainer was hell on wheels, I hated it, and gritted my teeth so hard I needed caps by the time he finally said I was done.” She showed him her perfect dental work with a laugh. “But here’s the truth. It worked. God-damn if I don’t feel like I know my shit better now because of how I learned back then. Owners lie. Slaves lie. Spotters? Shit, spotters live with so much lying, I swear they probably couldn’t give you a weather report in a hurricane. But trainers can’t lie. Especially not to themselves.”
Well, Stuart had his own truths as well. One, he was a man, no matter how anyone else cared to define it, and two, he was straight to the core, no matter what a slut his cock might be in the moment. As for switching in power—well, he was a little more flexible there, especially if the person holding the whip was a curvy girl in tall boots and a push-up bra. No, his passion was for training, period. And if Marcy could find him a trainer like Mr. Parker...
OK, he thought, looking up at the mirror again. Honestly, dude. You want him to train you so bad you’d go queer for him.
Gah! That was a distraction. He forced that image from his mind, that sexy, sexy image of kneeling at the man’s feet, waiting for some clue about how he’d be used. Shit, just handing him a glass of oak-and-peat-scented scotch had spun his head like a top. Feeling the strength of his body bracing him, as Michael worked on his dick, the sound of his slightly hoarse voice in his ear, the heat of his breath, wafting smoke down the back of his neck and along his collarbone, directing the action...
The Academy Page 52