“Mmmm.” It smelled strong. “Colombian?”
“Brazilian,” Vicente said. “Like me!”
“Oh, that’s where you’re from. I couldn’t figure out the accent.”
“Accent? I don’t have one!” He laughed and poured some coffee for himself. “You do. You all do.”
“Well, I guess you have a point.” Michael breathed in more coffee and took a sip. God, what a night. His sleeping problems had started during his third week—he would stay up for hours just waiting to get drowsy, and then wake up every hour or so until dawn. Since Emil had asked him about his sleeping patterns, he had examined them more carefully, and was a little shocked at how many times he’d not gotten a good night’s sleep. He couldn’t figure out what was happening—he always slept well before. He cut out the coffee after dinner, asking for decaf, but that didn’t seem to change anything.
“You worry too much,” the cook counseled. He checked the wall clock and pulled up another stool. Raising one finger, he wagged it earnestly in Michael’s direction. “Always, you are frowning, looking here, looking there, always looking for—what? Someone to jump out at you?”
“It’s tough being a student of the Trainer of Trainers,” Michael said. He forced a grin, trying to make it seem like a joke.
“Oh, yes. But it is better than being a carpenter, yes? Better than working at the Waldbaums store.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the local supermarket and made a face. Michael laughed—Vicente’s hatred for the huge, brightly lit shopping center was now quite well known. Helping out with the shopping had become almost automatic now that Michael knew where it was and had proven adept at fulfilling an order. Sometimes, he took Tara with him, but to her, this was old hat. She could probably make the list for Vicente without even taking a kitchen inventory. But she did come in handy to carry the bags.
“Sure, this is the life,” Michael agreed, sipping the hot coffee cautiously. “I bet the fringe benefits of this job were kind of a surprise to you, huh?”
Vicente frowned himself, digesting the question. Before Michael thought to define “fringe benefits,” the man brightened and nodded, and then shook his head. “No, Mr. Michael, I take no fringe benefits. Ms. Anders’, she used to offer, but I don’t need all these women. I have my girlfriend, yes? She is enough for me.”
“No kidding? Well, that’s, um, great. I hope she appreciates you.”
“I think so, I think that she do. She is good for me, too, and that is as it should be. All this playing with many girls—or boys, yes?—that is for the young.” He pointed at Michael and laughed. “Like you—young and ready for everyone, all the time. And look what happens—you don’t get good sleep! Not like Mr. Chris, no, he sleeps damn good. Isn’t that right, Miss Joan?”
Joan stood in the doorway, smiling at the sally. “Good morning, Vicente, good morning, sir.”
Michael grunted. “What, does everyone get up earlier than me?”
“Oh no, Anders’, she sleeps when she likes. It’s Mr. Chris who gets up real early, like a farmer. Don’t he, Miss Joan?”
“After sleeping very well, Vicente.” She looked expectantly toward the back door that led to the postage stamp porch and the narrow, fenced in backyard. Michael found himself looking too, and saw the shadow of someone coming up the steps. Hell, he probably was the only one who usually slept past eight, the great Trainer notwithstanding.
Joan poured a fresh cup of coffee, added a dollop of milk to it and opened the door. Chris came in, breathing heavily and shaking droplets of icy cold moisture from his shoulders. The weather had taken one final nasty turn, even as the trees outside showed tiny green tips. He was dressed for cold weather jogging, in heavy sweats and an insulated vest, all gray, with a pair of heavy black gloves. A scarf was twisted around his neck. His hair was wet, curled up on the sides and in the back. There was a rolled up newspaper under one arm.
He looked surprised at Michael’s presence, but nodded to him before handing the newspaper and his gloves to Joan. She took them neatly in one hand and passed him the hot coffee. It had all the look of a regular ritual—certainly they had had time to establish it. Michael wondered whether Tara had done similar duties for him, earlier.
“Lay out some clothing for me and get on with your duties,” Chris finally said. Joan dipped her head and body slightly in acknowledgment and left. The three men watched her exit, and then Chris turned to Michael. “Good morning.”
“Same to you. How does she know what you want to wear?”
“From observation, hopefully. If she ever expects to rise from housemaid to chambermaid, and then on to personal maid, she’d better learn to judge a person’s habits and tastes within a relatively short period of time. Ten years can actually see her rise to housekeeper if she’s attentive enough, or, she may be the companion and personal maid for one of the ladies of her household.”
It had all the sound of a lecture, and Michael compressed his lips as he nodded. He always wanted to know why things were being done, and how the training went on, and it was just dandy that Chris was the one who spent more time answering the questions. Just dandy. Also dandy that Joan was learning about Chris’s habits and not Michael’s.
Fact was, it was galling that he had to ask these things of Chris. And Chris made things worse by always being so carefully patient, quick with an answer, never acting like it was a bother. Yet under all that patience and good temper was a veneer of contempt, just a hint of condescension. It was almost like Michael was beneath him, a kid who needed remedial education and soft words. Someone from whom you could expect very little.
Like right now, even as Chris was stretching out a little, Michael could see the twisted edge of that sardonic little smile that always meant a controlled amusement. Michael began to regret coming down early. It would have been better if he had just stayed the hell in bed.
“Don’t worry,” Chris said, in that annoying way he had of reading silences. “You’re doing things as properly as can be expected.” And with that, he nodded to Vicente, who grinned and nodded back, and the Chris left the kitchen.
“Jesus Christ,” Michael muttered. “Just rub it in, why don’t you?”
“Now, now, Mr. Chris don’t mean any harm,” Vicente said with a laugh.
“Doesn’t he? He hates my guts.”
“Oh, no he don’t. If he hates you, he don’t talk to you at all.” He began to lay out breakfast ingredients, and poured the remainder of the first pot of coffee into a carafe. “You got to lighten up, Mr. Michael, eh?”
“I don’t see how. I don’t know what I’m doing, I have no idea whether I’m doing it right—and Parker makes me feel like I’m an idiot.” Michael found the words coming out without any real volition, and bit his lip angrily. Griping to the cook, oh that’s real professional.
“Listen to me,” Vicente said, leaning over to top off Michael’s coffee. “I been with Anders’ now, oh, many years. Every time she gets a new student, there is something different. One time this way, one time that way. If I don’t know how you supposed to be a student, how do you know?”
“Really?”
“Very truly. And Mr. Chris, oh, I know him for maybe... six years.” He paused to think. “No! Seven years now. More, maybe. And do you know, when he come here, years ago, Anders’, she don’t talk to him for weeks—months, maybe! Every day, he do the work, he go do shopping, he take out the trash, he clean the rooms, right along with the slaves. And he types, always types. Never once does he ask her, why you treat me like this—not out loud. Then, one day, he give her this big damn stick.”
Michael laughed out loud. “No, really?”
“I swear before God, this is true. He come in with this stick, so long.” He measured a distance of about four feet off the floor. “He give it to her, she laughs too, just like you, and then, then she talks to him.”
“Months?”
“It was a very long time,” Vicente said.
“I don’t know if I have tha
t patience.”
“Then you must learn it, Mr. Michael.” He sighed and smiled when Joan came back in. “This morning, we make omelets. Mr. Michael, out of my kitchen!”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said, hopping off the stool. He nodded curtly to Joan when he passed her, but wasn’t wondering when he would be able to get a piece of her. He was wondering how long he would have to chop the damn wood and carry the water. He felt the usual renewal of strength—this trip was proving to be a regular roller coaster of confidence and self condemnation. But if Mr. Perfect Parker could do it, so could Michael LaGuardia. Any day.
The initial awkwardness of being among strangers gave way to a familiarization with the habits of his housemates and the various jobs expected of him. Pages began to fill in his notebook, observations of how Tara responded to everything, notations about movement and language, attitude and emotional display. In fact, the scope of behaviors he got to witness was fairly mind-boggling. It had all seemed simple before—train them to be obedient, and to not show emotions like boredom, displeasure, or annoyance. Get them to be expressive in bed, honest during formal interviews, and suitably submissive in everything else.
But there were so many variables here, so much to take into consideration! Anderson’s bizarre requests seemed jarring at first, and then mysterious, giving way, finally, to the realization that they were deliberately strange in order to cover every possible situation a slave such as Tara might be expected to respond to. There was no way of preparing someone for everything, so the alternative was to prepare them for anything.
Anderson liked that. It was the first line in his book that she circled and checked. “That’s one of my oldest rules,” she said happily. “That one goes all the way back. Now, you’re paying attention.” She referred him back to her library, to a series of monographs on the topic, and he felt like a star pupil sent to the head of the class. But she didn’t alter his duties in any way.
It was still a relief to have the use of Tara as a sex partner, though. Having that outlet took away the heaviest distraction of his first few weeks. But there was something attached to that freedom. Anderson never gave him the slightest hint that she disapproved of his getting his rocks off—hell, she was the one who gave him permission to do it! But Parker—Michael got the distinct impression that Parker didn’t like it.
As usual. Parker didn’t seem to like anything about Michael or what he was doing. But this was more obvious. Michael would appear slightly disheveled from a bout with Tara and Parker would be the first to see him. He would scan Michael’s body, taking in the rumpled shirt, the wrinkled pants leg, the mussed hair. And he would hit Michael with this look—disgust, mixed with a little contempt and a dose of amusement. He usually wouldn’t say anything, but later on, some sharp comment, some pissy little jibe would hit Michael and it was too clear where it was coming from.
It was a total mystery why the man would act that way. Trainers weren’t supposed to be jealous over the damn slaves—slaves come and go, and either you get ’em or you don’t. And besides, Parker was gay, he said so himself—sort of. Why would he care if Michael was getting a little from the slave he was helping to train? Tara was certainly not complaining! Hell, she had a great time with him, and was probably thanking her stars that she had a trainer who didn’t just treat her like some corporate assistant. True, they never did get around to some really in-depth interviews, using some of the techniques and detailed questions that he found in one of the more basic Anderson training guides. But Tara had already been interviewed to death, hadn’t she? Between the Trainer herself and Chris, and her years of experience? So, obviously it was better for her to be able to be judged on her performances, and not on whether or not she answered a question quickly enough.
He wrote these opinions down in his journal, making them less antagonistic and more rational-sounding, and continued to write detailed descriptions of what he did to her and how she responded and whether he rewarded her with an orgasm or punished her with a spanking, and he tried to ignore Chris’s occasional hostility. It just made no sense. Instead, he concentrated on doing everything he could to make himself useful to the Trainer, and focused on that alone.
One night, Michael found himself alone on the first floor. Vicente was off, and away for the evening, probably visiting that girlfriend of his. She was Jamaican, Michael had found out, and the two of them liked to go dancing. It seemed amazing to have such a mundane life outside the Anderson house—he couldn’t imagine doing the same thing.
Chris was also out, having taken the car God-knows-where. Another little mystery trip that no one spoke about. Maybe he had a boyfriend.
Joan was with her Japanese tutor, upstairs. Tara had been given some free time, and the Trainer herself was catching up on weeks of newspapers and magazines, tucked away in her room with a plate of brownies and some chamomile tea. She sure had a sweet tooth—it was amazing how she managed to stay so thin. It was probably genetic. From time to time, Michael could look at her high-cheekboned profile and see the faces of the Native American women who still lived on the reservations. His curiosity about her origins had replaced the curiosity about Vicente’s. He wondered if maybe she had a touch of South America in her.
A quiet night in a quiet house. He had been unsure about how exactly to start a fire, so he didn’t. On nights like this, he missed both the friendly crowdedness of Geoff’s place and the presence of a TV. It would be great to lean back and channel surf for a while, just clear his head and enjoy some mindless entertainment. He had looked through the CD rack and found a few albums that he liked, but listening to music by himself didn’t feel right. Music was background for socializing. He would go out himself, but he had no idea where to go.
That reminded him sharply of his intention to seek out the local SM scene. He went to the office and pulled out some of the local papers Chris had mentioned to him during the first week, and began to scan. He had jotted down two likely organizations and two public SM/sex clubs when the unfamiliar sound of the doorbell made him jump.
He got up to answer it, knowing that Tara wouldn’t make it downstairs in time. Standing on the stoop was an older man, as tall as Michael, with black hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He was wearing a blue winter jacket with the hood flipped back. He looked familiar.
“Hi, what can I do for you?” Michael asked.
“I’m Grendel Elliot,” the man said. “I’m here to see Anderson.”
“Sure, come in.” Michael held the door open, and closed it firmly behind the man. It was frigging cold outside, and the chilled air swept around their ankles. Anderson hadn’t said a word about expecting anyone, but then she never did. “Um—can I take your coat?”
Grendel shrugged the jacket off and rubbed his hands together. Michael hung it up in the hallway and indicated the front room. “If you want to take a seat, I’ll go tell Anderson you’re here.”
“No need,” Grendel said. “I think the lady on the stairs will take care of that.”
Michael turned to see Tara halting in mid-step. “At once, sir,” she murmured, turning gracefully.
“Good eyes,” Michael commented. “Want something hot to drink? Or a drink-drink? I think I can handle that.”
“No, I’ll wait for the client. Anderson will no doubt have someone to show off.” He extended his hand. “You’re Michael LaGuardia. I saw you in San Francisco last year, when you were with Negel.”
“Great memory, too,” Michael said, shaking. Of course, it was the last Marketplace event he had gone to before leaving California. “Glad to meet you. I’ve heard good things about your house.”
“Thank you.” No corresponding compliment about Michael’s former house—well, that was to be expected. New Yorkers were always in a disdainful competition with California; there was no reason why this wouldn’t extend to Marketplace people.
The creaks of the stairway announced Anderson’s arrival. She looked genuinely happy to see Grendel, and swept into the room to take his hand
. “It’s good to see you,” she said.
“And you. You should come out to the Island every once in a while. Ride the horses, take some time off.” He smiled at her and let her hand go. “Alex says hi. So does Rachel.”
“You be sure to take my ‘hi’ right back. Have you met Michael?”
“Yes, we just got through the standard greetings.”
“Then let’s get down to business. Come into my office, and we’ll talk.”
Grendel nodded and headed over, and the two of them left Michael alone in the front room. He saw Tara vanish into the kitchen and counted off exactly one minute until she reappeared with a tray and headed toward the office. He wondered if Anderson had told her, or if she knew what Elliot liked. Whether she was always supposed to serve something to guests, or whether she needed directions or relied on instincts.
He waited for her to come out, in order to ask her. No sense in just sitting around doing nothing. It was a pity that she wouldn’t gossip with him—he would love to know what business was being discussed behind that closed door. And why Grendel Elliot—Chris Parker’s former employer—had just happened to arrive on a night when Parker was out.
* * * *
Grendel paid the proper admiration to Tara when she left, and Anderson was properly modest. They sat back in their chairs, her fresh tea steaming on the desk, his coffee cradled in his hands.
“So, what are we going to do about him?” she asked, playing with a bracelet on her left wrist. One tap of her finger sent it spinning.
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Grendel said. “I—we thought it was for the best initially, but now—why is he waiting so long? What is he waiting for?”
“I think he’s waiting to be told what to do.”
“Great! Tell him to come on back home.”
She laughed, and after a second or two, Grendel shrugged. She sighed and looked down briefly. “You know I can’t do that. It’s against my best interests.”
The Trainer Page 17