“You sound like you’ve been doing this for a while,” she said softly.
“Oh yeah!” He leaned back in the chair, throwing one arm across the back. “You can say it’s my life.”
“That’s great. I wish it could be my life.” The waiter brought over the appetizer and Michael didn’t follow up on that obvious invitation. He heard the inner voice cautioning him—you never discuss Marketplace business with strangers, and never in an open area where you might be overheard. You do not approach soft-world people and tell them about the Marketplace, not without a lengthy spotting process. But he was already planning to pack his training kit with everything he’d brought with him and take Karen to the play party that night, to tie her up somewhere very visible and make her scream for pleasure. Maybe share her with someone, if he could find someone he could trust—that was always a good test. And, if she still responded well, to take her back to his room and this time, use her for a good long time and put her on the floor, where real slaves belonged.
He also began to wonder what Geoff would think of her.
Chapter Nine
The days began to pass with some sense of order, at last. Every day now, Michael woke up to hours of work with Anderson and Tara, observing and helping the Trainer out, doing everything from basic role-playing to actually acting as her assistant. This was more like it—in the hands of the Trainer of Trainers, he was finally getting some instruction.
Not that it was formal or anything. She never really talked to him about “this is the way to do things.” Instead, she merely did whatever she was doing with Tara, and gave him the briefest of instructions concerning what he was supposed to do. But she insisted that he keep exhaustive notes, very occasionally asking for the journal and scanning a page at random. Then, she would return his handwritten pages to him with a request for more commentary and more details, always more details.
But he was working with her at last. And what was more, he had plenty of chances to interact with Tara, the best trained and best looking slave in the house.
Tara was there to brush up on her anticipatory skills—the priceless ability of a slave to know what an owner would want and when, and deliver it on time and with as little fuss as possible. Sometimes, it was as obvious as knowing how long it took before someone’s coffee cup would need to be refilled. Michael found himself counting drinks on different days, noting that Chris took coffee more or less all day long as his preferred beverage, and damn if there wasn’t always a pot on. Cups seemed to follow him around the house, too, replaced—usually—when he wasn’t looking. But when Tara served at the table, she learned that Mike rarely drank more than one cup himself, and he never found that he had to shake his head at her to refuse a refill.
It was how she knew when to give him more that was a real puzzlement.
Anderson gave him a look at a typed-up report on eating and drinking behaviors, and he found himself reading it with his mouth open in astonishment. It included descriptions of an assortment of dining styles ranging from fast food to formal dinners, and the amount of time people spent in each environment. It compared dinners in restaurants to private clubs to homes. Then, it continued to detail things like how patrons caught waiters’ attention in different countries, which verbal and hand motion cues were used for things like simply summoning someone, and how to ask for something in sign language.
“All this?” he’d said, flipping through the hundred and forty pages. “To figure out that people spend more time at the table at home than at McDonalds?”
“No—all that to show the difference between laying your napkin on the chair and laying it on the side of the plate. Or, between tasting something and never returning to it and eating delicately of all the things offered. Between putting your mug back close at hand, or further away from the table edge. Pay attention, Michael. These are the things Tara has studied—and Joan too, in case she is given the task of serving at the table one day. Somewhere in here are the clues to why they will know that you didn’t like the jerked chicken we had last night.” She raised an eyebrow at him and he grinned.
“I thought I hid that pretty well,” he admitted. “I mean, I’m sure it was great. But too spicy for me.”
“Didn’t think it had much zip myself,” the Trainer said with a shrug. “Vicente barely used the real hot stuff I keep on hand. But Tara noticed you. Your reaction to it was right out of this. Read it and summarize, please.”
Oh, well. But then, he reminded himself, it was what he had wished for when he got there—clear instructions on what to read and what to do. But it wasn’t exciting to read reports on people’s eating habits. Why not just say, “If you don’t keep an eye on things and bring stuff at the right time, you’ll be punished!” At least then, you got to smack them around if they didn’t get the fucking slippers to you or whatever. You needed excuses to play with slaves, right? Otherwise, they’d get sloppy.
But—apparently not. Tara didn’t seem to like it when Chris was asked to punish her physically—and it was always Chris who did it as far as Michael could tell. Sometimes, it was over something small—a second of hesitation, a mislaid item like a pen or a comb. Ten swats with that heavy leather strap of his, and then back to work, not a thing said except for “thank you and I won’t do it again,” all recited to some neat formula that Michael hadn’t uncovered in his reading yet but was piecing together from hearing the slaves say it.
But that was when Chris noticed something wrong. Most of the time when Anderson noted an imperfection, she’d just have the slaves do it again. And again. And again. She wasn’t kidding when she’d said that only slaves got do-overs in her house! No matter how silly it looked or how much time it took, she would back the slave up and start them all over, whether it was in something like carrying a tray or polishing a piece of silver or kneeling a certain way or even answering an imaginary caller—a role Michael played several times. A raised eyebrow or a disappointed look or even that rare sharp gaze that Michael felt more often than he suspected the slaves did—and both girls would look about ready to throw themselves on the nearest sword in shame.
And if the Trainer sighed and called for Chris—that was when the slaves would drop to their knees and beg for forgiveness or mercy, even if it was just the same kind of strapping they’d get from the man for doing the same mistake.
It was confusing to no end! What made it different when Anderson made that move to call in her surrogate? Was it the degree of the error? And why was that the trigger for permission to beg for mercy? And what element made Anderson choose to grant it or refuse it? Because she did actually seem to consider it a genuine request—her responses were never an automatic yes or no. Michael had always thought of begging for mercy as just some of the more organized ways that slaves could make noise while you were using or punishing them. But Anderson actually considered it—looked at the client and thought about it, and delivered her verdict, freeing them from the approaching short man with his strap, or sending them off to take their medicine.
It was all just plain weird! As far as he could tell, the Trainer only touched the clients to correct a posture or in praise. She certainly didn’t grope them or stroke them to arousal, or casually tweak delicate or sensitive parts of their bodies. Parker did, occasionally—but always in a quiet and subtle way, looking into their eyes until they blushed or squirmed, or even touching them while his attention was elsewhere.
But neither Anderson nor Parker ever seemed to take the girls to bed, as far as he could tell. Yes, Tara did tell him that she had been fucked. But since that day, he had realized that from time to time, Anderson received callers and saw them privately. Then, she would either summon a client into her office while her visitor was there, or allow the visitor to go off in private with a slave for a period of time.
Some of these people were other trainers, he was sure. He was rarely, if ever, introduced to them with more than a name and a handshake. But if they were taking the girls off to the slave bedroom at the b
ack of the house and beating and screwing them, there sure wasn’t any evidence of it. No one ever explained what it was all about, and he never gathered up the courage to ask. Somehow, he thought that someone should just tell him.
And of course all this wondering and speculating did nothing to keep his horniness in check. If they thought that a good trainer had to be celibate, man, did they have the wrong guy! He couldn’t figure out why the hell Anderson would not be using her own trainees—how else could you know how good they were? What they needed to learn? Even if Joan wasn’t always going to be used purely like a sex slave in her new position, it’s possible she might be sometimes! What if some chubby-chaser guest of her master wanted to lift her skirts and asked to borrow her? Wouldn’t it make sense to make sure she knew how to show a guy a good time?
And they knew that Tara would be sexually used by her master, so why keep her from pleasuring at least one of the two men here? Hell, whether Chris was gay or not, surely he wouldn’t object to getting a blowjob every now and then. And as much as the prospect of sharing her with Chris made him itchy, sharing would be better than getting nothing. But if Chris really was fucking her on the side, it certainly wasn’t for long periods of time or showy extended erotic torture sessions; the man was too damn busy! When he wasn’t writing or researching, he was out running errands, or working with one or both of the girls, or even helping Vicente in the kitchen from time to time. Anderson occasionally curled up in her big chair with a book and a slice of cake and hot tea, but if Parker did anything close to relaxing and having a good time, it sure wasn’t in view of any of the people in this house.
In fact, Michael himself had little time to establish a social life outside the house, not with all this reading and summarization. He jerked off more than he did when he was a kid, before he discovered that girls would lie down for him and guys would kneel. And he felt about as displeased with the situation as he had been then.
But finally, Anderson began to use him as more than the persistent caller who wanted to know why the master hadn’t returned his calls, or the annoying employee or staff member who harassed the hard-working slave. He got to do things like follow Tara as she moved through the house for an entire day, shadowing her, learning everything she needed to know, everything she did, timing her, watching but never helping or interfering. That was an astonishing day by itself—the sheer volume of information she had about the few people in residence seemed amazing, and the way she immediately prioritized and moved forward on things was just... neat. He couldn’t imagine being able to look at the big picture so quickly and know when it was time to set aside the financial paperwork to pick up a package at the post office and then return in time to help prepare and serve lunch, finish the paperwork, stopping only for a basic review of some of the rules of pool—which her owner apparently enjoyed—and then managing to finish the work schedule by the end of the day without a towel misplaced, a scrap of envelope on the floor, or a clatter of dishes.
The more contact he had with her, the more liberty he was given to touch her. He always made damn sure he knew explicitly what he could do, and stayed well within his limits, no matter how much his cock ached. Sure, a little teasing here, a spanking there, maybe a little hair pulling and nipple twisting—but he never took his dick out or did more than press it against her.
Then, one morning, Anderson was very clear. “From now on, think of Tara as a general purpose slave,” she instructed. Tara, her face composed, took this as calmly as a direction to use her as an assistant in a law library. But Michael felt both a shiver of delight at the more-than-welcome permission to act on these so vigorously controlled feelings. He nodded, trying not to appear too eager.
“I want to know exactly how she responds—and I want to see what her trainer would write, not what a young, healthy sex partner would write. It’s up to you what you do—Tara will tell you if you request something that her owner has forbidden. Interviewing time must be taken into account, though, so don’t be piggy, bucko. I’m going to cut down just a little bit on her chore time in order to make her more available to you, and Joan will be working more with Vicente in the kitchen and on the books. You do not have to do anything more sexual than what you have already done; I am more than willing to hear about how you might explore any possible use within reason. But you do not need to ask my permission anymore.” Anderson, dressed that morning in a long black broomstick skirt, checked her watch as she made the appropriate notations on the daily schedules and gave the top sheet to Michael. “Any questions?” she asked after he had a moment to scan it.
“Nope—all clear,” he replied cheerfully.
“Good. Then let’s make ourselves useful.” She left as usual, with no particular warnings or encouragement.
He turned to Tara and grinned. “Where are the condoms?” was his first question.
“Upstairs, sir,” she answered softly. “May I get one for you?”
“No—but you can get me—oh—six. Lubricated and unlubed, okay?” It was such an effort to keep his tone even, his body posture relaxed. Finally! He was singing inside. Finally, we’re going to have a normal slave household here. He did pump one fist into the air after she’d gone. He went out into the hallway to watch her ascend the stairs, the curve of her butt, the flash of her legs under the plain black dress. Maybe I’ll fuck her from behind, he thought. Don’t even undress her, just slide the dress up onto her hips and thrust directly into her, not even looking at her. Oh, that was always a good way, to not even let them see you, to not utter a word, just fuck, flip the dress back, and walk away.
Wouldn’t that be a hell of a way to interview her? he thought deliriously. He’d read of interviews conducted while a slave was tied up, or when the trainer held a riding crop to encourage quick or complete answers; why not one where he would drive her crazy keeping her turned on and make her answer questions while he was fucking her?
Or maybe make a bigger production of it? Take her upstairs and give her a good spanking first, tie her up—there’s got to be some rope around here. Give the occasion something to remember it by. After all, she must be expecting something new—or wait! Maybe the cold treatment would be better—
Mulling over his options, he heard Joan in the next room and crossed the hallway to see what she was doing. She was not alone.
Chris was with her, moving with her, and for a moment Michael thought they were dancing. Chris was standing behind her, his hands covering hers, and he was leading her in a movement that soon became a turn, and then a glide into a composed posture, suitable for waiting for instructions. He let her go, and then walked around her to adjust the posture, pushing her shoulders a little back, inching her chin down just a bit more.
“That’s it,” he said, stepping back to look at her. “Now, bring your head up, just high enough to make eye contact—slowly, slowly—no, leave your hands at your sides.” Joan did as he instructed, her fingers twitching slightly, and then settling.
“Good,” Chris said. “Now, on your own. Turn to leave... “ He twirled a finger to direct her and she started to walk toward the door to the dining room. When he clapped, she made that turn, quickly, but without a hint of surprise, coming to rest in a waiting mode in perfect obedience. Michael pursed his lips in grudging admiration. But apparently, Chris was not satisfied.
“Too Japanese,” he complained, coming forward to push her into an even more perfect posture. “Don’t dip your head so low, it looks exaggerated. Use those moves only when serving Japanese people, and then only if you’re sure they’re Marketplace. We’ll do it again.”
“Yes, Chris,” she said softly, shaking out and preparing to start the moves. Chris shot a glance toward the door, and Michael knew that he had always known that they were being watched.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mike?” he asked. Joan didn’t even peek at Michael out of the corner of her eye, but stood calmly at attention, waiting for Chris to return to the exercise.
“No,” Mich
ael said. “Sorry to bother you.” He ducked back into the hallway, and frowned, his stomach churning again.
She was supposed to be my slave, he thought. And here I am, playing entry level master games with the graduate, learning next to nothing while he’s doing the actual training I’m supposed to be doing!
Tara came down the stairs and waited for his acknowledgment. There did seem to be a touch of new tension in her—something that was neither fear nor pleasurable anticipation, and Michael held out his hand and studied her when she passed the condoms to him. Their plastic wrappers crinkled in his palm, and he saw the slight shake in her own hand, the wavering in the too-quick breath that she took.
The moment was gone. He couldn’t screw her now, not with the image of the training going on across the hall so fresh in his brain. Maybe later.
“That took long enough,” he bitched, pocketing the safes. “In fact, it took too long, didn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, please forgive me.”
“Let’s retrace the steps. I’ll follow you, and you’ll crawl, and we’ll still get back in shorter time than you did. Won’t we?”
“Yes, sir.” Glumly, she got down onto her hands and knees, and he reminded himself to punish her for that, too. As she mounted the stairs, he nudged her to go faster, aching to get away from the sound of coaching, that careful dance going on in the front room.
He took her to bed the following day, literally threw her onto his bed, slapping her body until she brought herself up on all fours again, pushing himself into her with a release that felt almost cosmic—his entire body tingling with need. Tara whimpered like a puppy when he sank his cock deep into her pussy, and pushed back at him with just the proper amount of eagerness, willing, happy, but not slutty. He barely managed to last ten minutes—and it was an uphill struggle all the way. She was so pretty under him, red-cheeked, little pink marks where his hands had struck, her hair in disarray, her body trembling with the force of every thrust!
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