Chris smirked. “Oh, that will please the golden boy.”
“We are a bit sensitive about him, aren’t we? Is it love already?”
He looked offended at her teasing. “There’s not a brain in his pretty little head. I’d like to think I set my standards a little higher.”
“Hm. You’ve played a broad field. Speaking of which, Rachel called again today. You know I think it’s rude not to return phone calls.”
They stared at each other in silence, and Chris’s shoulders slumped a little. “Yes, of course,” he said finally. “I’ll see to it as soon as possible.”
“That’s m’boy. Now let’s make sure Tara is ready to use her x-ray vision for more than coffee fetching.”
Chapter Six
The priceless library was more than priceless; it was downright intimidating.
Michael started at one end and examined every shelf. He had been impressed by the sheer number of books and binders there to begin with, never having been a big reader himself. But once he actually looked at what these collections actually were, he was hit by two truths.
He had been foolish to not pop in here and look the collection over, let alone ask Anderson (or even Parker) if they could recommend something to start with. Hell, Parker had given him two of Anderson’s own collected works, and he’d barely cracked them. He thought that maybe he would be given actual reading assignments, page this to page that, something clear-cut.
But the second truth was he didn’t want to read any of it.
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. Of course he wanted to know what was in these books, from the handwritten pages carefully preserved in archive boxes to the bound books on subjects relating to slave training but in more mundane fields, like business management and housekeeping and military history and philosophy.
But it was so much! Too much. And, he felt stupid now, trying to figure out how to ask for help. Would it have been that hard to say something like, “These books will be first on your reading list—we’ll discuss them on Friday,” or something like that? Some indication that this was the right thing to do? How was he supposed to have known that she wasn’t one of those people who get upset when you touch their books or something?
I could have asked Parker, he thought.
I’d rather eat worms, was his immediate rejoinder. I’ll be fucked before I go to him for help, the arrogant bastard. It had been a shock to find that Parker had his own binders on the shelves here, too. Would he be expected to read them? Do reports on them?
It was enough to make a man queasy.
Why did so many Marketplace big shots seem to delight in making it so hard on trainees? he asked himself, pulling a binder labeled First Interview Techniques from the shelf and tucking it under one arm. Anderson’s collection had things in other languages in it—none of which he could read. But she also collected works from other trainers, and Michael found a few names he recognized and groaned out loud. They were other high level trainers, from all over the world, famous in the slave training circles. He’d even met one or two.
Geoff knew them all, of course. He went to their gatherings all the time, came back with stories of hobnobbing with all the movers and shakers, what was in, what was out. And he’d taken Michael with him once, and Michael had been thrilled at the opportunity to learn from the world’s greatest trainers.
But it had been another waste of time—a bunch of snobs who didn’t like Americans, or didn’t like Geoff in particular, and just loved to lord it over novices, making it impossible for a guy to just get a simple answer.
No wonder Geoff was so popular! He didn’t go out of his way to make it difficult for someone to learn! He laid it out on the table for you, told you what he planned to teach, went through it step by step, and when he was done, he told you what you had just learned. And he encouraged—hell, he required questions!
But some of these people—man, it was like they were guarding the secrets of the universe or something. Or, they just wanted you to jump through hoops and sit up and beg until they felt like throwing you a crumb.
Michael had been in training for over a year when Geoff brought him into his office and invited him to come along for one of these all-trainer weekends. It was an honor—he always took his best students, the ones ready for exposure in the highly politicized world of the Marketplace Trainers and Handlers.
And it was expensive. Not terribly so—the Marketplace always partially subsidized such gatherings, making accommodations more affordable and airfares lower, and some trainers were simply sent there by their countries or local regions to represent everyone back home. But instead of taking just one student or slave attendant, Geoff traveled with an entourage whenever possible. Two students, or perhaps three, and lots of slaves so no one felt left without a playmate. His travel was subsidized by his owner circle—especially the ones who fancied themselves trainers as well.
For this particular trip, Geoff had chosen Mike and a fellow trainee named Crystal, and an owner/trainee named Bradley Cofflin. Brad was okay, as far as Michael was concerned—eager for new things, his mantra upon entering Geoff’s house was always “what’s hot?”—as though his own fantasies weren’t enough. He wasn’t a serious, fulltime trainer, or even a real student trainer. But he came to classes and workshops from time to time, and liked socializing with the trainers. He also kept four or five slaves at a time, never for longer than a one-year contract, and he agreed to bring three of them with him.
The conference was in England, at an honest-to-God manor house, rolling hills, formal gardens and all. It was relatively small—Geoff explained that the trainers present were all of one “line,” a training link that could be traced back like a family genealogy. The chief trainer of this line was a man named Howard Ward, who trained the woman whom Geoff was trained by. Even though she was no longer an active trainer, Geoff was nonetheless of this line. It seemed all very old fashioned, and kind of impressive. Geoff was careful to note that being of a trainer-line meant nothing as far as techniques were concerned. “Every generation invents its own realities,” he would say. “We honor the past by all means. But that doesn’t mean we have to live in it.”
The manor house, Rothmere, did have many guest rooms, but Geoff had arranged for the rental of a vacation cottage in a village a few miles away, for privacy, space, and a sense of atmosphere. “When you visit a new country,” he’d said to Mike on the flight over, “It’s best to get a feel for it away from the main reason you’re there. This way, we have our own space to come home to, with our own people attending us. You’ll be glad for the break from high protocol, I think.”
And it was nice—the low, three-bedroom cottage was charming and comfortable, and with Geoff in one room, Brad in another, and Mike and Crystal taking the room with the twin beds, there was more than enough space. The three slaves (two girls and a boy) would sleep where their masters put them, of course, and Geoff had been thoughtful enough to request extra pillows and blankets so they could be comfortable on the floor if desired.
It was all very exciting and cozy, but nothing prepared Michael for walking through the massive front entry into Rothmere and seeing, for the first time, a world in which there were no people who were not Marketplace—and one in which this was so natural, no one seemed to pay it any mind at all.
They came in out of a pounding rain, and were met by slaves in house livery who removed coats and hats and umbrellas as though they were magicked away. Towels and dry socks appeared swiftly and without fuss, and Michael’s own shoes were lifted away for a minute and returned brushed off and dried before he even finished running a comb through his hair. As suddenly as they descended, they were gone again, and the American visitors were left in the hands of an elegant man in a formal coat with tails, who escorted them to Howard Ward, who was in the magnificent drawing room with some of the other attendees, surrounded by ancient family portraits and coats of arms.
And then Michael began to notice something odd.
Whenever Geoff traveled in the US, he was met with great pleasure and excitement—his coming anticipated and his arrival a reason to be celebratory. But at Rothmere, Howard Ward only rose and only shook Geoff’s hand briefly with an air of polite distance. Michael could feel it immediately, even though Geoff seemed to act as though nothing was wrong at all. Ward doesn’t like him, Michael thought, watching how the man idly nodded to what Geoff was saying, and how his eyes darted occasionally to find someone else to move on to. Other people in the room watched as Geoff introduced his little party, and Michael could feel slight amusement, curiosity, and even a touch of confusion coming from the people whose hands he shook, but not even a second of warmth in their welcomes. Uh-oh.
It seemed to get worse, too, although sometimes Michael doubted his sanity, because he seemed to be the only one disturbed by these things. Brad was his typical, glad-handing self, heartily greeting strangers as though they were long-lost friends, slipping his card into their hands before they even had a chance to say hello back. And Crystal was very impressed by both the opulence of the Georgian manor house and the various British accents she heard, falling in love and lust with one speaker after another, grabbing Michael and sighing from time to time as she pointed out the latest object of her attention.
But while his companions were getting along in a fairly oblivious way, it didn’t take Michael too long to realize that Geoff was the only trainer who had brought more than one student with him. During that first evening, when they all wandered from room to room, Michael never met an apprentice who didn’t seem to be identified as “my pupil,” or “my junior,” or once, “my best student.”
To be one of three—with two others still at home!—seemed suddenly odd. And what was odder was that they were the only Americans there, too! Almost everyone else was British—or, as he was corrected more than once, they were English, or they were Scots, or Welsh, or Irish. There were two Germans there, but they were not of the training line; they were presenters. There was also a married couple from South Africa.
But Geoff was the only American. At first, it was easy to believe that it had been a singular honor.
Yet, even arriving back at their rented cottage was another moment that shook Michael up and left him lying awake in confusion. Because, when the four of them piled out of the car and ran to the door through the rain, there was no light on. Brad searched for the key while Geoff knocked, and the door was finally opened by a sleepy-eyed slave, pleasantly naked, whose eyes widened as she let the travelers in.
The other two slaves had to be awakened, too. And they had to be told what to do—even basic things like get robes from the bedrooms. Oh, they were very solicitous—one of the girls even wound a leg around Mike’s own thigh as she dried his hair, and whispered a sexy suggestion into his ear.
But all Michael really wanted was to get into bed and sleep off the jet lag in peace and dry warmth. He was grateful, as usual, that Geoff took control and sent the slaves running to fetch things and get them all settled, but when it came time to get into bed, the last thing Michael wanted was company. He listened to Crystal whimpering and panting for a while as her chosen slave went down on her, but stayed awake long after the breathing calmed and the room was in complete silence. His only consolation, as he finally drifted off to sleep, was that compared to the slaves who had helped them so well at Rothmere—including the ones who served drinks and passed canapés—the three here were much better looking. Probably more fun in bed, too, since the Rothmere slaves seemed so damn serious. But he hadn’t needed a pretty girl in bed. He needed one at the door with a cup of tea and his warmed bathrobe and a pair of slippers.
Obviously, Brad wasn’t keeping his slaves in line the way he should, Michael had decided. It was a good thing they would have this time with Geoff, to set things right.
The next day was even worse. They entered into the more formal style of the weekend, with set roundtable discussions and seminars. On that day, Michael found out just how small a pond Geoff was the big fish in.
The Rothmere gathering wasn’t just a chance to get these trainers of Ward’s line together to reminisce and chat—it was a chance for Ward to report on what had been learned at the larger, international gatherings, and for more experienced trainers to present work they had written themselves, or the work of colleagues. That morning, when the American contingent showed up, they found a long table set up in the vast entry way, containing bound collections from the annual meeting called the Academy, as well as folders and binders of reports and papers done by individual trainers of merit all over the world.
Geoff had brought his own collections, which Crystal and Michael made room for and displayed with their printed summary cards. But Geoff didn’t stop to pick up any literature—he gathered his troupe and gave them their instructions and then set them “free” to explore. As usual, he didn’t require anything specific of them, only that they didn’t clump all into one discussion together, so they could each share something new when they got home later that night. And with a smile and a warm pat on the back for each, he took only Brad to accompany him as he went to the first meeting Howard Ward was running.
Michael waited until Crystal chose a topic of interest to her, and then spent about an hour studying the table and taking mental notes. He’d never heard of many of these names—but he had heard of some of them.
The German, Walther Kurgan, for example. Geoff didn’t like him, and there was no mystery there. Kurgan was a military man, who looked for former military personnel as slaves. His methods came right out of boot camp, or whatever boot camp was called in Germany, and he produced top-notch bodyguards and drivers, the types of slaves who would serve and protect your family. Or, simply the well-disciplined type who could run your house or business or your life with aplomb. Or even personal trainers! One of the presenters at Rothmere was one of Kurgan’s former trainees, now a trainer on his own.
There were many more—Arturo Massimiliano, who trained slaves to be exquisite tops, becoming the dream mistresses and masters for their demanding, masochist owners. Geoff did that sort of training too, and was always reminding his trainers that there was no shame in being a bottom, and that the only shame was in being afraid to be who you were whenever you wanted to be. And the trainers would hide their snickers and grin with tolerant understanding, and Geoff would smile back at them with the slightest of winks.
And more! Did the Frenchwoman Corinne really only take slaves with a talent for six languages or more? Were there that many slaves, and was there a need for them that was so regular? Everywhere you turned, there was an expert in a particular method or a type of slave—a couple whose work was primarily in novices, a man who would not even think of considering a slave without ten years in service. There were trainers who used their own spotters, trainers who did their own spotting, and trainers who only took slaves who were referred by owners.
Michael found himself overwhelmed by the variety and the scope of topics. He looked for American houses and was gratified to find a few, especially glad when he saw that some of them were heavily sought after by other attendees. But Geoff’s were ignored. Sometimes, they were idly picked up and examined, but then put back down. One American trainer’s work got snatched up, though.
Anderson. No first name. People whispered the name to each other and passed the folder on to friends. Before they were all gone, Michael slipped one of them into his briefcase and examined the schedule for the next round of seminars, so he could get a better feel for what was “out there.”
By the end of the day, what seemed like a nice and kinky, mostly Californian way to handle matchmaking between sex-hungry bottoms and wealthy tops just vanished. It was much bigger, much older, and much more complicated than he could have ever imagined. And his place in it—favored student of Geoff Negel—was tinier than he had ever really wanted to know.
It was hard to even get into the swing of things—he would introduce himself and his accent would give him away. Someo
ne nearby might whisper “Negel,” or even worse, he’d see a spark in the eyes of the person he was speaking to suddenly fade, and then he’d be brushed off with polite civility.
He did try to attend a seminar and see if he could learn something new. But when Geoff or one of his trainers taught, they used slides, movies and live slaves to demonstrate things, the slaves always naked or in thongs or something, and they used humor and charts to liven things up.
Instead of all that, Michael found himself seated in the library with six other people, listening to an old man gently discuss—of all things—servants. Not slaves, but servants. Butlers, maids, and that sort of thing. It took a while for Michael to realize that the man was talking about slaves, and just using different language. He was explaining what it took to staff a full-sized manor house, back in older days and now, and how the hierarchy worked, and who reported to whom, and what their duties were... and Michael almost fell asleep. It was so damn dull he had to blink and shake his head over and over again to stay alert. Yet around him, the men and women were either nodding or taking notes. Notes? On what? Michael thought.
When the old guy finally got around to talking about training, Michael perked up a bit. They didn’t do a lot of domestic service training at Geoff’s, although all the slaves were expected to know the basic housekeeping chores, like making beds, loading dishwashers, laundry, that sort of thing. Why train all-purpose household cleaners if most of the owners would use their slaves for sex and light work anyway? But maybe domestic service might be a good sideline to go into.
The Trainer Page 8