Well, if it had been, Michael couldn’t say by the end of that long day. Because instead of handing out lists and moving on to showing off some pretty girl in a French Maid’s uniform and making her serve drinks or something, the guy just kept talking! And some of what he said just didn’t make any sense at all. Training done by other slaves?
Michael fell asleep at last, and awoke as people were politely applauding. He sheepishly gathered up his stuff and tried to slip out, but the man who had run the seminar was near the door, where people were shaking his hand and chatting with him. Michael tried to look interested in the ornate, free standing model of the solar system in one corner of the room, waiting for people to clear out.
Finally it seemed that they were all gone, so he dashed to the door. But as he tried to work his way through the long corridor leading back to the central hallway, he stopped as he heard voices around the corner ahead of him.
“I’ve always thought of you as an evil queen, Dalton, but never a wicked witch,” someone was saying softly, to masculine chuckles. “You certainly put that sleeping beauty down, now, didn’t you?”
“You are incorrect, Evander; that was indeed an evil queen who cast a spell on Sleeping Beauty. And, I must note that had I some magical power over such lads, it would have been to my advantage to use it for more nefarious adventures, rather than to send them into slumber! In any event, I hardly think the topic was of interest to the poor boy.” The second speaker, Dalton, seemed more amused than insulted, but Michael shrank away from the corner in horror. It was the man who had just presented on servants. There was no doubt who they were talking about. Michael knew he should just back away down the corridor and leave them to their private conversation, but his face burned and he stayed where he was.
“I agree,” said the first man with another chuckle. “I think it might have been the first time he ever heard that actual labor might be associated with service. Such a shame for old Ward, isn’t it? To have that American chap in his line. Bad enough to have him there—worse to have him here! Him and his nest of goslings, following him about. Three juniors, can you imagine? I would have bloody well liked to bring three, if I had them.”
“The one you have introduced me to is quite sufficient,” Dalton laughed. “Although I shudder to consider how many pages of notes you will have to examine later on.”
“Her notes are quite remarkable, actually. I shall send you some of her writing, I think you will approve. I need to discuss her finishing with you anyway. Finishing!” The speaker laughed. “Oh, if only we could do a little finishing on some of Negel’s lot! It would spare us some embarrassment later on, what? Damn shame. Listen, old man, we’re all off to the pantry tonight for a brandy, shall we see you there?”
“At my age, I shall be astounded to find myself still breathing after hours, dear boy. But if life remains in me, I shall. Bring your remarkable girl. Save the comfortable seat by the fire for me, and tell Mr. Glin that I have requested it.”
“Ta, then!”
Michael waited, head down, until he heard retreating footsteps. So, they didn’t think much of Geoff, huh? He started to move forward, his temper up. Bunch of snobs, all of them, with their high-class accents and their fancy phrasing and their... Piercing light blue eyes, wavy like the reflection of light over a shallow lake, and staring into his own as he almost ran into the man named Dalton.
“Oh! I—I’m sorry,” Michael stammered.
“No, please forgive me, I was clearly in your pathway,” the older man said, with a nod of his head. “My sincere apologies.”
“No—no, it was my fault,” Michael said, feeling another blush coming up. Of all times for it! But it didn’t help knowing that this man had just been referring to him as “Sleeping Beauty.” Being an object of admiration was one thing—by a man old enough to be his grandfather was something else! He swallowed and wondered if he should apologize for falling asleep, make some excuse. But it seemed to awkward to bring up, so instead, he said, “Um—nice workshop. I enjoyed it. Really.”
“Thank you, young man. I am gratified to hear that.” The man nodded gently again, and Michael could just feel that he was being dismissed. This only served to get him angrier.
“You know,” he said, before he even thought it through, “we’re not as bad as you think. We Americans. Geoff is a pretty major trainer out in California.” For a second, Michael wondered whether he should have referred to Geoff as Mr. Negel—but Geoff said that he hated that, so why put on airs to impress the natives?
“Undoubtedly he is,” Dalton said easily. “But I assure you, no one here has or shall cast aspersions upon all American trainers. We are very pleased to have such strong ties with many of our American friends and fellow professionals.”
“Well—good,” Michael said. But he heard the careful phrasing. This lecturer was not saying that they liked or respected Geoff—only that there were some American trainers they did get along with. He still felt angry—but how could he really show it to this patient old man? Hell, with his deep eyes and high cheekbones, pale skin over a high, domed and nearly hairless forehead, he looked like some movie version of a butler or the headmaster of a school for boys. And even though his tone of voice suggested dismissal, he didn’t turn away, and Michael felt as though this was a perfect chance to move beyond his gaffe—and to perhaps make a bigger move than he even imagined before flying to England.
“I’m actually interested in making some new connections,” Michael said suddenly, trying to be cool about it. “I—I am really impressed with everything here. Like, you guys have been around forever. You must know—everything! And I could use some more, um, experience myself. With different methods, you know? Different traditions. So—er—who in the States do you think is—someone you’d have strong ties with?”
Dalton blinked for a moment, and Michael wondered what he did wrong. Betrayed Geoff? he asked himself. But I’m not doing anything! he argued back. I’m just asking!
“Perhaps Mr. Negel would be of greater assistance to you in this matter,” the older man said gently. “I cannot seem to recall any particular names right now.”
“What about Anderson?”
Dalton looked down and smiled for a moment, and then back up into Michael’s eyes. “Oh, indeed,” he said slowly. “I would say Master Trainer Anderson is quite a worthy individual. A splendid trainer. But young man—if I might be so bold—she is slightly out of your league at this time.”
“She?” Michael echoed.
Dalton nodded, as though that answered everything. “Yes, my dear boy. I am afraid I must be going. Best of luck to you, and... perhaps you might consider getting a better rest tonight.”
Well, forget about that! All through the formal dinner that night and all the way back into the village, Michael was stricken with dark thoughts about his future. When Brad woke the slaves up again and made them dash into his luggage for sex toys, Michael almost groaned out loud. He was in no mood to play! But desperate to keep from showing Geoff how disturbed he was, he did pick up a whip and really did a number on the male slave for Brad’s enjoyment, while the master had one girl suck his cock and the other girl spread her legs for Crystal to fist. Geoff watched it all, happily proud of the tableau, and took one of the girls into his room with him when he was ready to turn in. Brad offered a choice of boy or girl for Mike and Crystal to share, but this time, Crystal admitted that she, too, was tired, and Brad went happily off with one of each sex, the way he liked it best.
And Michael stared at the ceiling, wishing that he could forget the look of pity that he’d seen in Dalton’s water-blue eyes before the old man excused himself. The folder with Anderson’s name on it was in his briefcase.
In the middle of the night, he crept out of his bed and into the kitchen to read from it. He thought, even as he forced his tired mind to make sense of the paragraphs, how come I never heard of her? How come I didn’t even know she was a woman, for crying out loud? What is a Master Trainer?
/> What are you hiding from us, Geoff?
And, he felt guilty as hell.
Chapter Seven
If Michael had any single question about what exactly Anderson did with her clients, it would have been “What can you do to improve perfection?” Because Anderson never took on a client who was inexperienced or untrained—in fact, her guidelines specified somewhat extensive training or years of experience in the collar before she would even agree to read a file. And slaves weren’t static—every day in the collar made them better, sharper. Geoff always said, “Anything a trainer misses, time will provide.” Of course, that wasn’t always the case. A bad owner could easily ruin a good slave by not utilizing them, or by being capricious in their control. Brad’s slaves were perfect examples of that. So, okay, maybe they weren’t the polished personal slaves at Rothmere when they left Geoff’s training house. But Brad did nothing to keep them sharp or improve them, so naturally they got lazy! That’s what slaves were like!
But if attention was paid to the structure of a slave’s life, and they were kept suitably busy, they would achieve a higher level of response in all things. Their service would sharpen, their sexual abilities would strengthen, and boom, you’d have one piece of prime material on your hands. It was conventional wisdom.
But how do you make them even better?
Simple, according to Anderson. Step one was to teach them how to learn.
The morning after Michael belatedly began his journal, Anderson finally took him in hand, introducing him to a session with Tara. At first, Michael thought it was going to be strictly observation—he had never interviewed Tara, and she was already almost finished with her training. But Anderson put him to work right away—and not next to her, either. Next to Tara.
The situation was sketched out for them both.
“You’re assigned to clip all articles containing references to Italy,” Anderson instructed, pointing to a pile of old newspapers and magazines. “They have to be attached to file cards and filed according to the topics in the folders. In the meantime, your owner is going to be wanting your services elsewhere. The exercise is to pass from task to task seamlessly, and to complete the assignment. To complicate matters, here is a new person who you have to instruct in filing.” She pointed to Michael. “He is not a slave, so you must treat him with respect due your owner’s paid staff.”
“Yes, Trainer.” Tara smiled at Michael and he nodded, somewhat confused about what exactly he had to do. Anderson had not given him separate instructions at all, only said to play along and fulfill his part.
“Okay—begin working.” Anderson watched for a few seconds, and the left the room.
Tara carried the papers over to the table and began sorting. Michael took a few off the top and began scanning.
“Have you done this work before, sir?”
“Well, no not exactly.” He sat down and waved a hand over the stacks of papers. “Why don’t you show me how?” How absurd, to learn training by having a slave teach you something. But if that’s what Anderson wants...
“First, we lay out the papers according to type, and then we go through them looking for articles,” Tara said, continuing to work. “Anything having to do with the topic gets marked, and then laid aside. Everything else is immediately thrown away. The recycle bin is over there.”
Michael nodded.
“Then, we cut out the articles and fill out the reference card for them. We can separate them first, or just file as we finish them. Both ways seem to take the same amount of time, at least in my experience. Is there anything else I can tell you, sir?”
Well, that was a better way of asking if he understood. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “You just show me how you’re splitting the papers up, and I’ll follow your lead.”
“Thank you, sir.” And she did—quickly and without any confusing directions. She would make a good manager, Michael reflected. She could organize a job and explain it well.
“What exactly will you be doing?” he asked after a few minutes of working in silence. “When you get home I mean.”
“I will be the Judge’s personal assistant and his accountant,” she said.
“Oh yeah? I didn’t realize you belonged to a Judge.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled again, and he felt a slight jump of erotic pleasure that surprised him. This had been the first morning he hadn’t thought of sex before anything else—it was a delayed reaction, no doubt.
“He is my third owner, sir,” Tara continued. “His former assistant was Anderson-trained as well.”
“So he’s gotten used to having slaves with X-ray vision, I guess.”
She blushed, that oh-so-charming reaction that made so many slaves a delight to play with. “As you say, sir.”
They would have to start reading soon, which would cut down on Michael’s opportunity to chat and flirt a little more. He leaned over the table, ignoring the papers. “Will you be his only slave?”
“No sir, he also has a security manager and chauffeur.”
“A lucky man. Will he use you sexually?”
Another blush. “Yes sir, I believe he will. He has already.”
“Oh yeah?” He looked her over, trying to see past the simple black dress. “When was the last time you were fucked?”
“Er—”
Well, finally! Something to trip her up. Michael grinned and hooked one leg over the table edge.
“That would be about six days ago, sir.” She busied herself with finishing up the separations, and then turning away to get a pair of pens and two scissors.
“Six days!” Michael wondered who it was. Surely not Parker—but Anderson? He tried to imagine the cool, laid-back woman actually getting worked up and fucking. It was difficult.
“Who—”
The door banged open, and Anderson appeared again. “Find out who the fourth signatory was on the Declaration of Independence, and change the towels in the blue bathroom.”
“Yes, Trainer,” Tara said instantly. And with a nod to Michael, she headed out the door.
Michael waited until he could hear her footsteps on the stairs before speaking. “Listen, Trainer—is there anything I should know about what my part is here? It’s okay for me to talk to her, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely, Mike. I want you to talk to her. You can also make use of her in practical ways—you are an employee of her owner, and she is his slave. Flirt with her, touch her—she will be expected to tell you if you are requesting something she may not give. Also, remember that you’re both responsible for finishing the task. I want you to study the way she manages her time and how she manages you.”
“You got it.” Well, that was understandable at least. He shuffled through a few papers and decided to wait until Tara got back to pick up the work again.
Tara returned in about three minutes and picked up the phone, dialing a long number.
“Who are you calling?”
“The New York Public Library, sir,” she said, covering the mouthpiece. She listened for a while, and punched another number. While she was on hold, she picked up a scissors and began to cut articles out. Most industrious. After a while, she got to ask her question, wait some more, and then she picked up one of the pens and jotted a name down onto an index card.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Michael commented.
“Oh, yes sir. Most central branches have a line to connect to researchers. Even the Library of Congress has one. Excuse me please, while I deliver this.” She bounded out, and Michael whistled through his teeth. Well, how the hell else could you find out something like that, he wondered. If you had a big library, and it had a history section, how would you know where to look? You could waste time looking through several books before you found one that listed the signers in order.
A very important thing to know—how to find out what you don’t know.
“Did you know about that service before you got here?” he asked her when she returned.
“There
is a similar service in St. Louis, sir. I called the first week I was here to make sure I had the proper telephone numbers. It will be part of my job to do simple research, in order to save the paralegal for more important tasks.”
“Now, how did you know I wanted to know that?”
She looked at him through demurely lowered eyelashes. “Forgive my presumption, sir—I thought you had intended to ask me about my service.”
“I did. That’s what’s so amazing.” He watched her trim the edges of the last article she cut out, and write a summary of the topic on the file card. Her handwriting was very neat. “I guess I’ll get back to work here.”
The next interruption came about a half hour later, with a request for two glasses of water to be taken upstairs to water a plant at the end of the hallway, and then returned to the kitchen. When Tara returned from that little errand, she was naked and barefoot. Another blush, this one a little more obvious than the first. Michael smiled, and knew why it seemed a little warmer in the house that morning.
“What’s this about?” he asked teasingly.
“It is an order, sir,” she said. “Do you—do you find it distracting?”
“Yeah, very. But not enough to change it. Come over here and show yourself—this is the first time I’ve seen you looking like a slave.”
“Yes, sir!” Carefully, she made her way around the table to his side.
She showed her body to him. Raising her arms up behind her head showed off her small breasts and lifted their tight, pointy nipples up. What a delicious contrast to Joan’s heavy, round globes! Her back straight, her legs parted, she was like a pale statue, not so much toned as she flowed like silk poured over a mannequin. And bent over—oh, yes, that perfect, heart-shaped ass. Her flesh showed some light bruising, especially right across the middle.
Michael whistled again and drew a finger across the bruises. Her flesh rippled where he touched, like waves of shivers—a nice effect. And she did the show postures very well, too. But that was to be expected. Not only were they the first moves taught to a Marketplace slave, but the procedure was originally choreographed by Anderson.
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