The Trainer

by Laura Antoniou

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” she said wryly. “But I’m glad you came. You set a good example.”

  And he did. He was a classic Anderson slave—attentive, subtle, and surrounded by a kind of attitude that was almost palpable. Other trainers had mentioned an aura that followed exceptional slaves—and Lorens had it. If he had any obvious fault, it was that he was exceptionally cheerful, but that was the demeanor his owner preferred, and you couldn’t argue with that.

  Michael was alone in his room that night when he began to reflect on what he had really learned so far. There was no order to it, nothing that he could write down as an outline: This is how to train slaves. Yet there was a feeling he had, a sense that there was something here that was eluding him, something larger than a mere lesson plan.

  He stood in front of the mirror at attention, studying his posture and correcting it until it was the standard expected by Anderson—and by Chris. He laced his fingers behind his neck to throw out his chest, another common posture, and straightened his head a little. Damn! There was so much they had to remember—and still maintain a calm and serious demeanor, or be cheerful in the face of bad days and the unfair twists and turns of life. What was inside of them that Anderson could see but he couldn’t? What made Chris so damn sure that his slave Robin was innocent—and what bound him to her? She was just one of what—dozens? A hundred?

  He let his arms down and felt the gentle twinge of holding the position too stiffly. Damned if he could figure out how to hold it softly!

  He wondered if not being able to figure that out had anything to do with not being able to figure out what exactly he was learning other than patience.

  Chapter Twenty

  Chris could see Anderson’s silhouette as she parted the drapes and watched him settle with the cab driver. He wondered if Lorens was nearby, waiting for her to sleep so that he could or whether he was tossing and turning in his bed, feeling awkward and wakeful.

  He opened the front doors with his key and felt the emptiness of the hall. No one was waiting to take his coat, so he hung it up himself. It smelled like smoke. Anderson wasn’t going to like that.

  “Hail the conquering hero. Wasn’t that a line from something?” Her voice was hard, and Chris paused before walking into the front room.

  “I’m sure it was, Trainer.”

  She was dressed tonight in red—a wool vest embroidered with zig-zagged tribal patterns, layered over one of her worn white cotton shirts. Her long skirt was a deeper red than the vest. No silver jewelry tonight—only a dark stone dangling from a chain around her throat. There was a fire lit, although the weather didn’t really warrant it. It looked like it had been burning for some time—there were no pieces of wood left in the metal stacking frame.

  “But you wouldn’t presume to correct your Trainer, would you?”

  “That would depend on the circumstance,” he said wearily. “As does everything else.” She didn’t invite him to sit, so he remained standing.

  “I’m still finding it hard to believe you went out there.”

  “It was the right thing to do. An investigation would have—”

  “Would have ended in the same result,” she interrupted.

  “With all due respect, Trainer, I don’t think so.”

  “Obviously. So off you run to California, where you proceed to—what? Brutalize some former street kid? For what? To avenge the harm done to your client?”

  Chris smiled and stopped hiding the hand with the bandaged knuckles. “Someone’s been telling tales out of school.”

  “Chris—what on Earth got into you?”

  “That’s a telling question, Imala. What I did may in fact have a great deal to do with what’s gotten into me.” He paused for her sigh of exasperation and shrugged. “I cannot in good faith offer an excuse other than this: my responsibility to Robin demanded that I be there for her. My current—condition—made me less able to handle my anger, which is regretful. You were correct, it would be impossible for me to do that for everyone whose training I’ve participated in. This was a special case. And I’m satisfied with all but one aspect of it.”

  She angled her head suspiciously. “I can’t wait to hear what that is.”

  “I should not have hit the wall quite as hard as I did.”

  She shook her head. “I’m a sucker for a straight line, Chris, and you know it. I’m still disappointed.”

  He spread his hands in front of him. “I await your discipline.”

  She smiled. “Is that why you did it?”

  “Certainly not!” he replied indignantly. “Besides, if I had—you wouldn’t do a thing.” His mouth jerked up on one side as he struggled to keep serious.

  “True ’nuff,” Anderson said. “Well, I suppose everyone has to come to this crossroads eventually. I’m glad it finally happened.”

  “And is that why you forced it?”

  “Certainly not, to coin a phrase.” Hers was strong, but lacked the same indignation. “If I wanted to get rid of you, I’d throw you out.”

  “That’s a comfort. But there is no crossroads, Trainer. You didn’t order me to stay, and I didn’t defy you by going.”

  “Impasse?”

  “No. Just a disagreement. Nothing to be overly concerned with. May I be excused?”

  “Sure. After you make good on a promise to me. You still haven’t shown off this thing you’ve been building for so long. Let’s take a gander now.”

  He looked slightly surprised, but shrugged again and nodded. He unknotted his tie and slid it from around his throat, and started to unbutton the shirt he was wearing. It was wrinkled from the hours on the flight. “I’m sorry,” he said somewhat belatedly.

  “It’s all right, Parker. I know you’re shy.”

  He pulled the shirt out of his trousers and took it carefully off, draping it across the back of a chair. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, which he pulled up over his head in one smooth motion. Then, he stepped closer to allow her to examine the creation that was his upper body.

  “Oh my,” she said softly, rising. “You have been a good boy.” She ran a finger lightly across the top of one shoulder, outlining the muscular structure that had just begun to form two years ago. The firelight danced and made rippled patterns down his chest, which was perfect, considering the subject matter of the tattoo. She examined it, bending down to see more of it. Her fingers lightly traced under the pectoral muscles, and she moved them away when he shivered. “Sorry about that. But there’s something about so much work that demands a respectful and admiring attitude.”

  He blushed, and she laughed out loud. “Thank God I can still do that, Parker! Sometimes, you do have me worried.”

  “Do you like it?” he asked, ignoring the tease. “The colors? You don’t think it’s—excessive?”

  “No, dear, I don’t. I think it’s perfect. Now, I think I’ll go to bed. And—you may, too.” She tapped him lightly on the shoulder when she went by. “There’s a lot of work still to be done, Parker, crossroads or not. Let’s try not to have any more emergencies, shall we?”

  He picked up the shirts and his tie with a sigh and nodded at her back. “Of course, Trainer. Good night. Oh—Trainer?”

  She turned to him. “Yes?”

  “‘See, the conquering hero comes! Sound the trumpet—beat the drums.’ I believe that’s Thomas Morell.”

  “Parker, whatever you are—you are always a wiseass.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  She laughed again, and he followed her upstairs after banking the fire and checking the doors.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Now, observe. Watch her very carefully as she goes down.”

  I wish, Michael thought bitterly. But he obediently looked at Joan as she dipped into a kneeling posture which was not one of Anderson’s standards. The British woman was kneeling with her knees drawn up tightly together, her back straight and shoulders back. Her palms were resting on the sides of her thighs, fingertips
straight down. Her chin was lowered. It was not the most attractive of postures, but it looked good with the maid’s uniform—very formal.

  “Correct the position,” Chris said. It was the order Michael dreaded.

  It was one thing to know how something was done, another thing to do it. Michael had also discovered that seeing something done and knowing how it should be done was also quite different than correcting minor errors when it had been done! All the necessary points were there—toes pointed, back straight, head down, fingers down—what else was there?

  Several times, he had tried to do something, anything. He would push her shoulders back a little more, and then see that he had pushed her out of line. Or, in another move, he would walk around her, studying her for a long time until she actually moved out of position. That’s when he would criticize. Both tactics failed. He also tried just saying that he thought she had executed a task or movement perfectly—and then watched as Chris made some correction or another. It seemed that whatever he did—or didn’t do—was wrong. If Anderson had been an indirect instructor who rarely made a point of saying “this is how it’s done,” Chris Parker was the teacher from hell, knowing every possible answer and making sure that Michael was aware of every mistake he made. Chris also maintained that slightly snide attitude about it all—he never called Michael stupid, but Michael heard it anyway.

  He looked Joan over with a sigh, checking items off a mental list. They were all there this time—or maybe her head was a little too tucked? Her chin shouldn’t be touching her chest—was it? No, it wasn’t. He was tired; a steady thumping pain right behind one eyeball was making him feel more impatient than usual. In one week, Parker had upset Michael’s latest resolve and brought back all the anxiety and the feeling that nothing was happening. He shook his head. “I have no idea, Chris. I have absolutely no idea.”

  Chris started to say something, but then switched his attention to Joan. “Bring your chin up just a bit, girl, right there. Yes. The remainder was satisfactory. Go and see if Vicente needs any help.”

  “Yes, Chris,” she said rising. She was a little stiff—the position wasn’t made for lengthy periods of time. But like the good slave she was, she waited until she was out of sight to stretch out properly. When her footsteps receded, Chris turned to Michael.

  “The knowledge of ignorance is a person’s first step toward education, Mike. Isn’t it about time you got off that first step?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s too late in your training for you to keep relying on not knowing what to do. A slave gets to ask twice—a trainer should be able to ask once and then be able to do it. If there’s a special problem here, I would appreciate knowing it.”

  Michael fumed. “First of all, I am not a slave, and I can ask however many time I need to, until you explain it right. I don’t understand why everything has to be so absolutely perfect! The position was plain—all the elements were there, she had the right attitude—any owner would be thrilled to have a slave that could pull that off every time!”

  “Not the owners who patronize Anderson,” Chris answered evenly. “She holds her clients to a higher standard because the sloppy, haphazard training cultivated by gentlemen like your former employer have ruined the market.”

  “What?”

  “You’re getting tiresome, Mike. I think that’s enough for today. We’ll work together tomorrow morning. She’s going to be practicing some basic flower arrangements, and I don’t think you have any experience there.” Chris nodded a dismissal and waited for Michael to leave.

  Michael had no such intention. “Not until you explain that last crack, Parker. Geoff wasn’t Anderson, but he turned out great slaves. To happy owners! His methods were different, that’s all. I didn’t much approve of some of his stuff, but he’s a good man, and a good trainer. No one’s ever complained about one of his slaves!”

  “That’s not true, Mike, and I’m surprised that you believe it. If you like, I will be glad to pull up the files and show them to you. It’s trainers like him who have flooded the Marketplace with inferior, rapidly trained novices whose dedication to the craft of service—to the lifestyle, if you like—is at best questionable.” Chris folded his arms casually, but his voice was sharp. “Year after year, I see more stories of contracts broken, leaks of information to the press, discussions among the dabblers—the word is getting out, Mike, and it’s because of trainers like Negel and the flotsam he gathers and shapes into slaves. Not to mention the dilettantes he selects as his junior trainers.”

  “You shut your mouth,” Michael growled. “I don’t need to hear this shit from you.”

  “Yes, you do. You need to hear it from someone, before you end up right back where you came from.”

  Michael gritted his teeth and folded his arms. “Okay, go ahead. Tell me what a waste of time I am. It’ll be nothing new.”

  “I don’t suppose it will be,” Chris snapped. “Here’s truth, Michael Xavier. You were trained in a ‘tradition’ not even a decade old. A philosophy that takes the entire drive for honorable service and turns it into kinky sex. I would hazard a bet right now that when I pulled up the files on slaves sold through Geoff Negel, 100% of them would be beautiful. Muscular men, shapely women. Would I be correct?”

  Michael nodded. “Owners want their slaves to look good. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

  “Would he have taken Tara?”

  “Sure, she was okay.”

  “Even at the age of forty-six?”

  Michael set his jaw and felt a deep twinge of shame. No, Geoff wouldn’t have taken her at forty-six. There was a belief that the younger a person was trained, the better they’d behave. Also, owners preferred younger slaves—

  Unless they were bookkeepers and researchers, maybe. He felt that familiar old sinking sensation, and tried not to think of the thousands of tasks and skills which age and experience would lend value to.

  Chris nodded, as though following Michael’s train of thought. “All right, let’s assume that he would take Tara. We know he’d take Lorens.”

  Michael dropped his arms and began to nod.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “But no way would he take Joan. I mean, not the way she is. He’d want her to lose the weight. Take up aerobics, go on some diet.”

  “And why?”

  “Because people like skinny people! Come on, it’s not unrealistic! There are lots of houses that only take beautiful slaves! You go with what gets bought.”

  “The owners will buy quality, Mike. Years ago, Marketplace slaves were not always assumed to be sexually available, let alone skilled. In some areas, it is still considered tacky and uncouth to take your slave to bed—one does not make love with a social inferior.” His tone changed to slightly mocking. “Now, thanks to the trainers who serve up the idea that a slave is nothing more than a kinkier than average plaything, there is this sudden proliferation of slaves who are quite agreeable to look at but hardly talented or dedicated to their service. Slaves who expect to be matched with similarly attractive owners who will require nothing more than sexual availability and willingness. Slaves who think nothing of jeopardizing their master’s reputation, or the safety of another slave. Slaves who are actually in it for the money, Michael. Or because they were failures at everything else.”

  Michael took a step back; there was a lot more here than just a lecture. “Hey, chill out, Chris. This seems to be getting out of hand.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s getting out of hand, Michael LaGuardia. Trainers like yours, who believe that you can take a selfish little failure off the streets and Pygmalion him into being an acceptable slave!”

  Shit—this was about whatever happened in California. Michael held one hand up. “Listen, I don’t even know what went on there, Chris—but I sure as hell know that Geoff wasn’t involved.”

  “No? Think again. The man who supposedly spotted and trained the slave who caused this entire situation was certified a
s a trainer by your own teacher, Mr. Geoff Negel. And who knows what tragedy would have followed you if your scheme to turn a weekend ‘sub’ into a slave had actually gone beyond the spotting stage?” Chris grinned in his nasty way and cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps I’d have to go clean that up, too.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “Watch your language, Mike. I’ll see you in the morning. You may leave.”

  Michael trembled with anger, but there was nothing else to do. The only other option would be to hit the short, taunting man, and that would surely ruin everything once and for all. He nodded and turned stiffly, feeling the heat of the controlled rage. He didn’t even know where he was going, and was surprised when he found himself back in his room. He locked the door, feeling slightly foolish, but knowing that the slightest interruption would set him off. The bed creaked as he sat down and buried his face in his hands.

  He had gone back to Geoff’s with a heavy heart but with some measure of confidence. He would just have to pay more attention to the techniques of spotters. There was a whole library of slave narratives describing their experiences in entering the Marketplace—he would have to read them or watch the tapes and take some notes. Maybe he just approached it the wrong way. It was obviously Karen’s fault—she had misled him into believing that she had real potential.

  At first, there was no clue that anything terrible had happened. Work continued, and Geoff was encouraging and sympathetic about the “breakup” that Michael haltingly described for him. Michael was very careful to leave out any hint that he and Karen had been doing anything more than sleeping together and doing pretty standard “date things” like going to movies and to the beach. He fell back into the ongoing training with ease, marveling at the difference between the obedient, docile slaves at the ranch as opposed to the curious and demanding Karen. He began to wonder how he had ever been hoodwinked. Weeks went by without incident, and he believed that Karen was all behind him.