“What kind of a doctor is he?” Anderson asked.
“I—I never asked,” he said.
Chris lowered his head for a moment, and Michael didn’t hear a sigh, but knew that one was being held back anyway.
“You didn’t ask me to interview him,” Michael said instantly, looking at Anderson. “I mean, it would have been rude to just start asking questions of one of your friends, wouldn’t it?”
“Did you think it was rude when he did that to you?” she asked.
“What?”
“You were interviewed,” Anderson said. Chris lifted his head to look at her, but she kept her gaze on Michael. “Emil is a psychologist, specializing in Marketplace personnel, especially clients.”
Michael felt his anger build, coupled with embarrassment. He glanced at Chris, but the other man had turned his attention toward the kitchen, and Michael could see the door swing shut.
Oh, no, wouldn’t want the slaves to see this, he thought bitterly. He had to force himself to sit still, try to keep his face neutral, even though he wanted to snap, and slam his hand against the table. “Why?” he asked.
“Excellent!” Anderson said. “Good control, Michael. I want to see more of that, although your frustration is as clear as a window to anyone looking at you. As for your question—I didn’t answer it before, and I won’t answer it now. I suggest you come up with some theories yourself, and we can discuss them later. In the meantime,” she rose and the two men rose with her, “I want Tara in the study, and Joan is to have a little free time for being such a good girl today. Send Tara to me with some dessert.”
“Yes, Trainer,” Chris said. They both watched her leave, and Michael sat back down with a string of forbidden words all balled up in his throat. He knew his face was red, and he didn’t care.
Chris vanished into the kitchen for a moment, and when he came back, Michael looked up at him and said, “That wasn’t fair.”
Chris nodded, his lips compressed. “You’re right,” he said simply. “Please excuse me, Michael, I have some work of my own to do.”
Michael sat there in silence for a moment, stricken with the shock those two words impressed upon him. Not, “you’re right, and tough shit,” not “you’re right, but who cares?” Just “you’re right.”
But he got up quickly and left before Tara came through with her dessert tray for the Trainer. Whether the door was opened or not, he knew they had heard everything. And he had had quite enough of acting dumb in front of slaves for one day.
How was this supposed to make a trainer out of him anyway? He looked at his journal again and in one motion, scooped it up and pitched it across the room. It made a satisfying thump as it hit the wall, and made him feel even more foolish than before.
Chapter Eleven
It was very late, but the light was still on under her door. Years of experience taught him that she generally slept no more than he did. He knocked gently.
“Come in, Chris.”
Her room was in the back of the house, the windows shrouded with the heavy branches of the trees she loved so much in the spring. Right now, between their bare branches, you could barely make out the dim lights of the buildings which shared the long yards behind them. He put the latest pages down on her dresser and drew her curtains for her.
She was in a long, soft dressing gown, decorated with gray pussy willow branches, gently faded with age. She had been at her delicate rosewood writing desk when he came in, but as he busied himself, she crossed the room to examine his papers.
“You could have left this in my office,” she said, putting them down. “I won’t review them tonight anyway.”
“Yes,” he said. He turned to her and put his hands behind his back, and she smiled. Silently, she walked toward him, and he stood still until it became clear that she intended to pass him, and he stepped neatly out of her way.
She sat down at the vanity mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. “You didn’t even ask what Greta wanted to talk about,” she said, running her hands through her hair and pushing it back over her shoulders.
“It’s not my business,” he said. He had turned to stand to one side of her, so he wouldn’t be addressing her back. “I know you’ll tell me if I need to know, or if you want my opinion on anything. It was just surprising to find that they had come here when I was... occupied.”
“I couldn’t very well have Emil interview Mike with you hovering about,” she said. “And besides, Tara needed a good day outside the house. But go ahead. Let me hear it.”
“Trainer... with all my respect... engaging Emil to conduct an interview without Michael’s consent was... not ethical.” The effort it took him to say this was considerable. She could feel the tension in his body as he forced the words out, and hear his carefully modulated tone as he kept the strong emotions away from what he was saying.
“Emil thought so, too,” she said. She picked up her hairbrush and held it out. “Come on, make yourself useful.”
“Thank you,” he said softly. She closed her eyes as he began to brush her hair in long, measured strokes, lifting it gently to avoid tugging on a knot here or wave there.
“But, Emil trusts me,” she said as she felt the confidence in his hands increase. “And so should you.”
“I do,” he said. “But my trust in you and my respect for you didn’t outweigh the need for me to say it.”
“Good,” she said. The brush strokes never paused as he spoke—he was perfectly able to do one thing with his hands while having a discussion, or answering questions. Even under duress, she thought, a fond memory flitting by. After a little more of the comforting silence, she continued, “I explained to Emil that I needed some new perspective on the boy, and that to the best of my knowledge he wouldn’t even recognize an interview when it was conducted, and that was the point of this exercise. And, as long as I didn’t ask that Emil reveal anything he learned beyond a very basic profile, he agreed to do it. And,” she said, opening her eyes, “he told me nothing I didn’t already know.”
“I beg your pardon,” Chris said gently, “but what you learned is not the point. I believe that Michael’s consent should have been sought before subjecting him to a professional examination.”
“What about teaching him a lesson on interviewing?” she asked.
“He needs to start from the beginning on interviewing skills,” Chris said firmly. “In my opinion, he should not be allowed to continue these farcical interviews with Tara. They have been far more useful to her than to him, and frankly, she doesn’t need that much time spent practicing something she already knows how to do. He, on the other hand, should study more technique. From the beginning, with question construction and multi-layer styles. And frankly, Trainer—I must ask why you have not been interviewing him yourself.”
Anderson closed her eyes again—was that the slightest bit of hesitation before he asked? No—only a shift as he let some of her hair fall and picked up another bundle in his hand.
“He’s not ready for me,” she said. “Perhaps I should have you start him.”
“If that is what you wish,” he said. “But I do not think I’m the best person to get honest and complete answers from him. And if you do give me this task, I would have to ask that I be permitted to take him in hand.”
Anderson chuckled. “Well, that does seem to work for you,” she admitted. “But you’re right, it wouldn’t be very helpful for him right now. I will probably have you set up an interview or two eventually. In the meantime, he stays on Tara. And I don’t want to hear anything more about Emil’s little charade after tonight. It’s done, and I did it, and you’ve had your say.”
He sighed, just a little bit, and nodded. “Yes, Trainer,” he said. “Thank you for hearing me.”
“I’ll be ready for you to stop that in another fifty or so strokes,” she said, leaning back. In silence, he kept working on her hair, lifting it in one hand to brush out the tangles at the ends, gently bringing it from where it fell ar
ound her face and ears. He never pulled against her scalp, but saved firmness for the ends, his hand braced to hold the hair free of her body while he worked it into luxurious softness. The gentle movements of the brush against her head were as hypnotic and pleasurable as massage. Then, in about fifty strokes, give or take a few, he braided it for her, and she gave his hand a firm squeeze when he was through. Still silent, he left her to her thoughts, and the new pages he had delivered. The silence was delicious, relaxing, and comfortable. With a sigh of her own, she picked the new pages up and started to read. She always meant to leave them for daylight, but curiosity always got the better of her, too.
Chris went back downstairs instead of to his room. He smiled when he saw the figure rising from the chair by the fireplace in the front room.
“You should get some more sleep,” he said, jerking his head toward the hooks by the front door. Tara smiled back as she got his jacket for him and held it. She slipped into her own coat and the two of them went out to the front of the building together. Chris slipped a red box out of the breast pocket of his jacket and allowed Tara to light a cigarette for him, and they stood together on the stoop.
“I’ll miss you,” Tara said softly. Down the street from them a truck rumbled by, and Chris waited until it passed to pat her on the shoulder.
“You’ll be too busy to think of us here,” he said. “You have an excellent contract to fulfill, and the Judge is a demanding man.”
“Even so,” she insisted. “I didn’t want to leave without telling you... “ she blushed, and laughed, and looked down. “You know, I thought I knew what I was going to say.”
“Don’t say it, then,” Chris said. “Just go and be a good slave.” He smiled at her. “As I know you will be.”
Tara wrapped her arms around her body and sighed. “Thank you,” she said. “That means a lot to me. But I’m still worried. Will it be enough? Do you think he’ll be able to tell... “She paused and looked at Chris sideways. “Do you think I might not be perfect for him?”
“You have exceeded any reasonable expectation in your training,” Chris said. “Perfection can only be striven for, never attained. But you are an Anderson slave. He will enjoy and appreciate your service and your... newfound enthusiasm?” They both smiled through the smoke and he waved it away. “Your enthusiasm,” he repeated. “I’m sure of that.”
She sighed a little and nodded. “Thank you. I needed to hear that. I’m so nervous about going back, even though life there is much easier than it is here.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I hope so!”
Chris took her chin in his hand and repeated, “You will be just fine. And, you will enjoy this contract, knowing that your master has the best trained, most responsive and intuitive slave he could ever hope for.”
Tara turned her head and dropped a kiss into Chris’s palm, and he laughed as he withdrew the hand. “Save it for your master,” he said.
“May I call you?” Tara asked, suddenly shy again. “If—when I get a chance?”
“If I’m here I will be pleased to catch up with you. And if, for some reason, Anderson is not available, I will always be happy to be a contact for you. But you know it’s best not to contact me for social reasons.” He said this gently, and his eyes were direct with hers, and she dipped her head in assent. “Don’t worry,” he said firmly. “You have everything you need to make this contract a stupendous success. Both the Trainer and I believe in you. Now, go inside and go to bed, Tara. Don’t lead Joan into thinking she can get away with this sort of thing as well.”
She laughed, and bowed her head in gentle submission, leaving him there to finish his smoke. She heard him come in a short while later, just as she heard him walk through the house one last time, checking doors and turning off lights.
Chapter Twelve
Michael debated confronting Anderson over his ambush interview for several days. Every time he got up enough anger to feel the rush of excitement, that drive that told him, “Yes, now! Make her tell you why she did that! Make her understand what a shitty thing that was to do!” —he’d stop himself with the simple question, “What then?”
What if she didn’t answer? What was he supposed to do then, just pack and leave? And really, what kind of threat was that, when she could have a dozen people out here the next day aching to take this on?
Or, what if she did answer? Did he expect her to say that he was right and she was wrong, and ask for his forgiveness?
At first, he tried to even imagine that—and after trying for a few minutes, realized that no, that wasn’t going to happen on this planet.
The next step was to try to figure out the “why” all by himself. Interviewing a slave was one thing—they were set up for it, told they had to tell the truth, and they had a reason to be interviewed. Their answers might form parts of their contracts, or establish their suitability for service, let alone for a sale.
Geoff had interviewed him, before he went to live in Santa Cruz. It had been informal, more like a media interview than a job interview, with Geoff sitting on the terrace outside his Los Angeles hotel room, with a pitcher of iced tea which he insisted on pouring for them both. It had been a beautiful day, powder-blue skies fairly clear all the way to the ocean. Michael had approved of both the setting and the man. He’d been eager to impress, relaxed and excited all at the same time. And the more questions Geoff asked him, the more he wanted to be a part of this whole mythical world, somehow.
Michael ended up telling Geoff more about his life and his feelings than he had ever told anyone. About men and women, and what he did with them, and what he wanted to do, dreamed of doing. About how he saw his future in the Marketplace. He told long stories about his experiences in school and with his friends, growing up, and Geoff never looked impatient or bored. They only paused to break for lunch, and even then, Geoff let Michael talk and talk and talk. But then, Geoff did have a background in...
Psychology. Of course.
I’m so stupid! Michael thought as he realized how easily he had been manipulated. I fell for it. It did feel strange, at one point almost like a job interview, but I was so eager to have this guy like me!
But let’s be honest, he immediately reconsidered. I was desperate for someone to listen to me, and I wasn’t paying attention to how weird it was. Anderson never left me alone with anyone before—and no one ever seemed interested in me the way he was. Something should have clicked, something should have made me wonder what was going on.
But I told him so much! Hell, another hour, and I would have told him about Karen!
Emil was good, Michael thought. He never showed the slightest boredom, or shifted the conversation to himself—hell, that alone should be a clue, he thought with a wry smile. I must have talked at least eighty percent of the time, but I never even felt like I was being grilled or anything. Is that a good way to interview a slave, too? Or was it a special interview for trainers?
Would it work on a slave? A lot of them were very talkative, that was for sure! Hours and hours of dreams and fantasies, days worth of stories of experiences—he had watched the tapes, scanned through many transcripts. Some slaves, you just couldn’t shut up, once they got started.
And then there were slaves like Tara. She was a hard nut to crack, although she didn’t seem to try to hide anything. It was just that she answered questions quickly, to the point, and often in as few words as possible. Was that something her master liked, or something Anderson taught?
How can I get her to talk more, he wondered. Is that what this was all about? To show me how to seduce answers from someone? But why should I have to? I’m her trainer! She should know that she has to tell me everything! How can I be expected to know what to even ask, if she doesn’t lead me with her answers? He tried to reconstruct exactly what Emil did, what he said, but there were no secrets he could find there.
The next time he had time with Tara, he kept his cock tucked away and started her on a more relaxed interview
style. He didn’t even have her strip, although that had become standard behavior. Nope, he sat her down in a chair opposite him and crossed one ankle over his knee and asked, “Tell me about how you found the Marketplace.”
Tara nodded as she gathered her thoughts, her soft, “Yes, sir,” pleasant. “I was in college,” she said. “My junior year. I knew that I was a slave in my soul, but I had some... not bad experiences, but sad ones, with lovers who didn’t support my fantasies, or approve of them, really. I had decided to make my life a form of service. I was going to work for some struggling legal aid society or maybe be a fundraiser for a group that helped battered women or runaway teenagers or homebound elderly. Somewhere, where what I did could make a difference, and where the workload would be too much to support much of a social life.
“One afternoon, while doing volunteer work at a meals on wheels place, I met the woman who spotted me, Corazon. She did occasional work there as well, not regularly, but everyone seemed to know her. We became friends. She seemed wild and exciting, but was fun to be with and just a joy. No matter how hard my day was, she could say a word and I would want to go and do what she had planned. I trusted her, too, enough to finally tell her one day why my old relationships never seemed to work. And that was the day she told me that she was a sadomasochist, and that she understood both my need to serve and my desire to be owned.”
She blushed a little as she said this, and suddenly, Michael realized that Corazon must have seduced her as well. That was to be expected—the Marketplace valued slaves who were bisexual, but he had somehow never actually asked Tara if she had women in her past as well as men.
He looked at her, sitting up correctly, but not too stiff, her pretty breasts neat under the simple dress she wore while serving, her shapely legs demurely together. It was easy to imagine her in the embrace of another woman—a darker-skinned woman, tan to her fair, with dark curly hair, and deep, dark eyes, maybe with curvy hips and a sensuous smile. Just enough to melt that slight chill that Michael occasionally felt from Tara. Long, pecan-colored fingers stroking those pert, pale breasts while Tara moaned and gasped and begged for more, the way he had taught her.
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