“Okay. I’ll call Grendel tomorrow and tell him that his offer is being considered.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. And if you’re ready to stop beating up on that poor chair, why don’t you show me the finished project?”
Chris touched his chest thoughtfully. “It was a little messy tonight. The bandages will be on for a few days. I’ll show you as soon as they come off.”
“All right, I’ll wait. But I do want to see it. For now, come on over here and work off some of that excess energy on my shoulders. Tara and Joan are just not strong enough to do it right.”
He got up at once and started rubbing his hands together. “Why don’t you ask Mikey? I’m sure he does a divine massage.”
“Why don’t you keep your mouth shut and your hands moving, wise ass?”
He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. But before he began, he bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I’m very sorry I’m such a pain, Trainer. You are better to me than I deserve.”
She smiled and turned slightly to give him one back. “Damn, this beard is scratchy. What would you do if I told you I didn’t like it?”
“The razor is upstairs.”
“Ah, you’re a good boy.”
“I try, Trainer, I try.”
Chapter Fifteen
It seemed barely possible, but the time had come to say goodbye to Tara. Michael felt strange about it—for four weeks, he had participated in her training, but he didn’t feel he knew her at all. Anderson never invited him to her private interview sessions with her, and Michael was always bad at extracting deep information out of a file. He did manage to get some details about her life out of her, but not the in-depth level of knowledge that a trainer of Anderson’s caliber habitually sought with their client. He went back over his notes from the few interviews he did manage to remember to schedule, but realized that there was little he could say about her life before the Marketplace, or what her true personality was like, or even how many owners she had. The book on interviewing techniques had offered dozens of questions, but he had actually asked her only a few. And when he looked back at her file, he found that the sketchy information made available to him didn’t seem to enlighten him as much as just hammer home how much he didn’t know. Why hadn’t he questioned her with the file in his hands, at least once? He regretted not paying closer attention.
Toward the end, Tara worked almost exclusively with Anderson, reviewing, being tested, and being polished. It left Michael with a lot more time on his hands, and that kept him constantly running into Chris and Joan. The tension escalated, and nothing seemed to be able to stop the rise.
It would seem innocuous on the surface. A moment in the corridor, an exchange of glances. Michael would always try to keep himself neutral, but as Joan began to actually improve before his very eyes, his resentment grew.
His journal had begun to bulge with pages and pages of scrawled notes. From time to time, Anderson would ask to see it, or would ask him what page he was up to, but still she gave him little formal instruction. He found himself re-reading some of her works and memorizing passages. He wanted to sound prepared if she should question him—but she rarely did. And as he saw more changes in Joan, he began to actually practice some moves when he was alone in his room.
It had started with that first sight of Chris doing that movement dance with Joan. It had seemed like the obvious way to teach, but that would require that a trainer be as graceful as a potential slave, and as skilled in all of the arts. It went against Michael’s previous training. But something in it seemed so right that he researched the topic on his own. It was right there in front of him, in Anderson’s writings and in the notes and essays by the trainers she admired.
The best trainers, they insisted, were slaves and former slaves.
It was hardly a new concept. Hell, it was almost common; it had even been part of what the leatherpeople called the “Old Guard” style of SM. One had to work their way up the ranks, as it were, by starting as a junior bottom, working up to senior bottom, and then to junior top and so on. Conventional wisdom usually held that the best tops were bottoms first.
Michael had run into that attitude first with Geoff. Geoff, who had never been a slave, obviously disagreed.
“It’s a common fallacy,” he had explained. “The fact is, there are natural tops and natural bottoms. There’s no reason to explore something that’s not a part of your nature just to make someone else happy. I expect that my trainers will be open-minded about new experiences, but I don’t insist that they act in ways that are contrary to their nature.”
And that made sense. But Michael had tried bottoming anyway, just to see if he could figure out why the slaves liked it so much. He picked up a hot-looking guy at a leather bar and went home with him for some bondage, a little spanking, and some minor cock and ball torture. It was all devoid of intercourse—Michael made it clear he wanted SM only, no cocksucking or buttfucking. And that was okay—tops in the leather world were well used to bottoms setting limits, and this one went along with it.
The spanking was downright fun. The man’s hands were slightly rough and large, and the way they felt when he massaged Michael’s buttocks was simply pleasurable. Michael relaxed and purred when the spanking began. Each warm slap pleasantly shook his lower body and sent thrumming signals through to his balls. He knew his ass looked good, and he liked the way the man admired it, stopping frequently to squeeze and cup the cheeks. Michael was bent over the back of a big leather chair, his body well supported, the scent and feel of the leather gently arousing. And when the top growled at him, telling him to admit he liked it, Mike grinned and cheerfully did—and tried not to laugh. There hadn’t been the slightest feeling of surrender in what he was feeling—only an erotic sort of relaxation. The verbal exchange killed that, though.
The genitorture started with a rough hand job to get him tumescent. That was accomplished rather quickly, and Michael watched as the older man pinched and pulled at the loose skin around his balls, playing with sliding the skin on his cockshaft back and forth. It was weird—but not especially painful. Clamps were painful, though, and he was astonished to find that his erection didn’t vanish when they were applied. The top was pleased though, and his excitement was plain. He twisted and tweaked them, changing where they would go on and off, tapping them, pulling at them—until Michael finally felt the whole thing had become annoying and casually called his safeword.
And was promptly released and congratulated on how far he’d come in his “first session.” They had beers in the kitchen afterward, and the man asked if he could watch Mike piss before he left. Michael thought it would have probably been closer to the man’s true desires to pissed on—but he obliged him with what he asked for and went home.
He tried it again with a professional dominatrix, and took his only flogging from her. That was a little better, but when the session was over, he didn’t feel very, well, submissive. His back was warm, and tender in some spots, and it did feel great when she ran her long nails down his body. He liked her wardrobe—she had worn high stiletto boots and stockings and a wonderful PVC corset all in red and black. She was also into some verbal attitude, and that didn’t seem as jarring as it had been with the gay top. Maybe it was just more theatrical with her—but Michael got into it. It was sexy.
But he couldn’t see wanting this regularly, or being thankful enough to want to lick her boots or even bring her a cup of tea. It was just okay. Pleasant sensations were nice. But the minute they became more than exactly what he liked, they just became frustrating or annoying. So, he decided that he wasn’t made to be a bottom, and stopped exploring.
But this was something different somehow. Michael had put his body in the hands of sensual tormentors, but had never tried to be submissive. Had never actually done the tasks which made up so much of the actual training. Now that he thought of it, he realized that whenever Geoff wanted to show a movement or demonstrate a res
ponse, he called in a more experienced slave. It was only natural to use them that way—yet it wasn’t thought of as using the slave as a teacher.
That started him thinking about Parker. The guy had to have been a slave once, that was how he knew all that stuff. Michael wondered how long ago that would have been, and who trained him initially. Anderson, probably—except that she didn’t do novices. So, who trained him first? And how long ago was it? Could it have been Elliot and Selador?
There was one way to find out.
Anderson’s computer had a modem and a connection to the Marketplace records office—she was entitled to that. Geoff had had a connection too, but mainly used it to write long letters back and forth with other trainers and his network of spotters. You couldn‘t just dial in and get any information you wanted; there were levels of safeguards with codes to allow someone access to certain information. By himself, Michael had no standing. He could log on, put in his ID code, and get what were essentially email privileges. But Anderson had full access, and he had her code.
Technically, he wasn’t supposed to use it for this kind of research. But there was so much available in the online archives that she had given him a code in order to download files only available to fully recognized trainers. He was only supposed to do it when she gave him a specific assignment—which had been twice, so far. But he was familiar with the software enough to do a quick search. No one would ever need to know.
He made the call and listened as the atonal sounds of the modem echoed from under the desk. The archives asked for a name and two codes, and he filled in the blanks using Anderson’s information. Soon, he was presented with a full menu of options. He went immediately to sale records and set a search for Parker, Chris or Christopher. To narrow the search, he entered his nationality, gender, and kept the search to dates after 1970. Parker didn’t seem much older than thirty-three, but you could never tell.
A green dot blinked slowly as the search began.
Michael kept eyeing the door, expecting Parker or Anderson to march in at any minute and demand to know what he was doing. But Chris was busy with Joan and Anderson with Tara—there was no one in the house who cared what Michael was doing. He tapped the desk nervously. And bit back a curse when the search turned up a 49-year-old Christopher Parker who was black and currently living with an owner in Nova Scotia.
The system asked if he wanted a detailed record of that Christopher Parker. He hit the function key for no, and it asked if Anderson wanted any other files today.
Search: Anderson, first initial unknown, female, American. His finger almost slipped as he hit the key to launch the search. Two minutes later, six files popped up. He examined them one at a time, until he hit one that made him shiver.
Anderson, Imala. New York, NY. Master Trainer...
That was her! He hit the key for the full file, flushed with the excitement of finding her origin. A basic identity file popped up, the screen filling in information which confirmed that this was her file. Her first name was... Imala? He’d never heard that name before. Birthplace—Augusta, Georgia. When the first page of the file was complete, he hit the return key to request the next section, the Marketplace timeline that would reveal all of her standings, whether she had been a slave or an owner, who had trained her...
File unavailable. Damn! And you just couldn’t ask the damn machine why. He left the individual records area and tried asking for it as an archived file.
Personnel file Anderson, I. is sealed. There are 312 files in this archive utilizing Anderson as a search parameter. Select. More. Search. Download. Exit. Return to Main menu.
He hit exit and logged off, feeling a little wasted. What a disappointment!
But maybe not. He turned the machine off and thought about it some more. Who would have the ability to seal off an individual file like that, and why? If he could search slave records, and other trainers, why not Anderson? Was it her decision to block such access? And if so, at what level?
And stranger yet was Parker—he knew the moves, he walked the walk—but he had never put his butt on the block. In fact, despite his having published works for other trainers, why wasn’t he listed as a trainer? His record wasn’t even sealed—it was just plain missing! How very interesting.
But ultimately, not very helpful. There wasn’t any way he could use this information—he certainly couldn’t let Anderson know he was snooping in the personnel files. He wondered what would happen if he punched in his own name. Had Geoff made a formal report about what happened? If it was in his file, did that mean that every full trainer, all over the world, could read about that one dreadful mistake he had made?
He switched the computer back on, and with a twinge of fear started searching for himself.
Karen had bought the lie about his life, or at least made peace with herself about it. And she took to the training very well for a complete amateur raised in the wrong environment. Oh, it took him a long time to make her unlearn what she had learned—despite her claim that she was self-taught, she had picked up these habits from somewhere. A lot of it came from fictional books, some classic and some pretty laughable. Michael borrowed them from her and enjoyed them for their erotic content, if not for the light they shed on slavery. He returned them with notes attached—“Never do that,” or “Works only in novels.” And whenever he caught her imitating her fictional role models, he would paddle her until she cried, and burn the book in front of her. It happened twice—and replacement books never showed up on her shelves. Not bad.
It was almost terrifyingly exciting. Just being alone with her, without Geoff’s plastic-covered charts and neat files, without the endless videotaping and question-and-answer sessions, was so thrilling it was difficult to keep it a secret. He was her god—he would arrive at her door and she would be ready for him: collared, naked, and shivering with anticipation. Eagerly, she would serve his every whim, and suffer for every infraction. He would sprawl out in her bed, while she lay on the floor with only a light blanket and her chains for comfort.
She was allowed no privacy, no secrecy. She had to ask for permission even to relieve herself, and he would often watch her, just to let her know that no door could be closed to him. Many of these things went beyond what Geoff taught—bathroom habits were assumed to be the province of individual owners and slaves were warned of that potential, but that was it. Really having the power, Michael decided, was much better.
He would put her in bondage and photograph her, and toss the photos under her face while he fucked her later on. He drilled her relentlessly in how to move, how to talk, and even took some of Geoff’s basic training manual out of context to give her pages to study. He took credit for them, and warned her never to reveal them to another person, and she swore that she wouldn’t.
She rarely wavered in her dedication to his training; in fact, she thrived upon it. She told him more than once that he was the most dominant lover she ever had—that he always knew exactly what to do to make her feel properly submissive, and never once let her slip. He was proud of her admiration, and eager to show off his skill every time they met. Sometimes, he would drive back to Geoff’s place, half falling asleep at the wheel, exhausted from the expense of energy one weekend with her took from him. But it was worth it, every minute. She responded to him like a dream, and punishing her for her errors made him feel like he could take on the world and beat it into submission.
Once, when he arrived and she had her period, she was cranky and didn’t want to be touched.
“I’m sorry, master,” she said to him, wearing panties and a robe. Her hair was tangled, and she looked like she had just come from bed. A far cry from the freshly washed, primed, and already aroused woman who was supposed to greet him at the door. She grimaced and forced a smile, one arm bent over her lower abdomen, and kept talking. “When I’m like this, I just can’t do anything right. I’m bloated, I have these awful cramps—I should have known it was coming—”
He slapped her, hard, across
the face, and she reeled back in shock. Geoff rarely—if ever—used that much force against a slave’s face. He gave swift, light taps with his fingers only, or held onto their chins with one hand, scaring them as he calmly delivered his discipline. But Michael had itched to just lay a hand across someone’s mouth like they did in the movies or on TV—and the effect was pure adrenaline on him. Karen’s eyes snapped open wide as one hand flew to her cheek. Blood drained from her face and then rushed back as she blinked and gasped.
“You’re disobeying me,” he said coldly. “Get those clothes off, and get down on your knees, you’re going to be punished.”
“But—listen, I don’t feel well—”
He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her down to her knees. “You’re a slave,” he hissed, pulling his gear bag over to her. “You feel what I want you to feel. You’re not sick, you’re only on the rag. That doesn’t count for an incapacitating illness.”
“Mike, please—”
He pulled out his brand new gag and pressed it into her mouth. The ball spread her lips and forced her mouth open and she coughed against it as he settled it in place. She was crying as he buckled it on, but didn’t fight him as he stripped her robe off and then cuffed her wrists behind her back.
“If you’re not in the mood to serve me, you won’t have to,” he said, pulling some rope out. Expertly, he bound her ankles together, bent her knees, and lashed the ankle rope to her wrists, leaving about two feet of slack. It wasn’t a hogtie, it didn’t bend her backwards, but it did keep her from going anywhere. And she would hurt like hell when he let her out.
He knew about the dangers in what he was doing—the handcuffs alone were considered by most Marketplace people to be barbaric items, suitable only for law enforcement or punishment, and then only used sparingly. The gag and the bondage were strictly because he liked the look—bondage at Geoff’s or at his uncle’s was a more elaborate affair, designed to create access, rather than deny movement. But she was crying—he had to stay close, to make sure she didn’t get her nose all clogged and lose the ability to breathe. He also had to make sure that her hands didn’t lose feeling. So, he took a seat behind her and read her own magazines, flipping through mail order catalogs and listening to her muffled whimpers and moans, watched her wiggle her fingers and shiver.
The Trainer Page 19