The Trainer (14 page)

And, if you were devoted enough, you’d buy
more clothes and toys and take off every once in a while for one of
these weekend events, where you could mingle with a few hundred
other perverts in leather, show off your play style or learn new
ones and go home, secure in the knowledge that you were not alone.
Hell, you were in the forefront of the sexual outlaw movement—if
there could honestly be such a thing.

Marketplace people either loathed or loved
such affairs; there was rarely a middle ground. Some had come out
of that very world, pushing their love and lifestyle faster and
harder until someone spotted them and tested them and brought them
into the fold when the time was right. Some had never known that
world, raised in the ultra-rarefied world of those born to the
Marketplace, raised in households that had owned slaves, or, like
Joan, raised by slaves themselves, always aware of the opportunity
to serve or be served. But regardless of their background,
Marketplace people knew one major caveat about what was sometimes
called the Soft World—it could be highly dangerous.

Not to one’s physical safety, but to the
Marketplace itself. Lose your sense of caution with the wrong
people, and you could have an explosive situation on your hands. It
was absolutely necessary that the Marketplace be considered
mythical for it to survive. People who carried over-romanticized
ideals about the potential quality of outsiders were always warned
away from trying to act as spotters. Leave that to the
professionals, was the constant advice. Spotters spend years
sifting, they know what to ask, what to do, what reactions to look
for. So don’t ever invite a stranger to partake, don’t volunteer
information unless you’ve had years of experience, seen, heard and
met many Marketplace folk and can know the feel of one.

This seemed reasonable, and Michael had
followed the generally accepted rules about confidentiality. To
gain access to the soft world, he joined some local SM and leather
organizations, presenting himself as a mostly heterosexual topman,
a master. It was so tempting to play with the women he met, to
romance them, knowing that he could take them home and make them
really know what a master was like—but he didn’t. Geoff was proud
of his self-restraint.

“A trainer has to be aware of their
temptations and be able to know when to indulge and when to
resist,” he would say, patting Michael reassuringly on the back.
“It’s great that you can have a good time at these events—and
they’ll help you a lot, especially when we’re dealing with clients
who come out of that tradition.”

That was Geoff, all the way—he could always
find something encouraging to say.

So, there he was, resplendent in his leather
jeans, his black shirt and the leather vest, little colorful
cloisonné pins showing off where he’d been and who had given him a
token of their esteem. He was looking forward to the panel
discussions, the demonstrations, and especially the dealer‘s room,
where he was bound to find some new toy to bring back and show off.
Geoff had recently presented him with the designer leather bag he
gave all of his trainers when they reached a certain level of
ability, and Michael was eager to fill it with fancy toys of all
sorts. He’d already gotten some real beauties in terms of whips,
but felt he could use a nice wooden paddle, a riding crop or two, a
big, fat, ball gag, and maybe one of those bullwhips, too. One as
long as he was tall, perhaps, in gleaming black. He already knew
where to learn how to use one—Geoff had an expert come by once in a
while to teach all the trainers.

As he scanned the hotel lobby, there was a
sense of almost juvenile excitement in the air, a camaraderie of
souls, if not lifestyles. Leathermen swaggered by, denim-covered
asses and crotches squeezed into erotic packages by skin-tight
leather chaps. Dykes in vaguely imitation mode swung their hips and
jangled with dangling keys and spiky haircuts. Heterosexual couples
walked in arm in arm only to show up later with one half wearing a
collar and the other half holding a leash. Furtive single men and
searching women dotted the fringes, casting lingering gazes over
each other, gauging orientation, tastes, expertise.

A playground for perverts. Michael wanted to
hug himself with delight. He could spot the Marketplace people he
knew instantly, but never even suggested that he recognized them,
nor did they acknowledge him. It was no loss—he could socialize
with them anytime! This was a weekend for strange faces and a few
laughs.

“What do you think?” he asked the vendor,
twisting to catch his reflection in the angled mirror.

“Oh, it’s you,” exclaimed the heavyset,
bearded man, his voice strangely gentle and soft. “Really sets off
those amazing eyes.”

And it did, too. The chrome band on the brim
of the cap settled neatly over the bridge of his nose, and the
triangular segments of blue were even more arresting than usual.
Yeah, black everywhere, down to that heavy ring around the blue,
and then these bright orbs, staring right back at you...

“I’ll take it.”

“Great! That’ll be eighty dollars.”

Michael snorted. Eighty dollars for a
fucking hat! Oh well. Training didn’t pay much, but it did include
room and board, so he could splurge once in a while. If he didn’t
get any new toys this time around, he’d come out under budget. And
maybe Uncle Niall might be counted on for a bullwhip at Christmas.
He paid the money and turned back to the room, now confident that
he would turn every head there or die trying.

“That’s a great cover, sir,” came another
astonishingly high and sweet-sounding voice from next to him. He
turned, prepared to flirt , and found himself looking down into a
pair of eyes as eager as his own, surrounded by masses of light
brown curls. She was almost a full head shorter than he was, and
round-bodied, a full, sensuous chest that spoke of delightfully
pillowy breasts, and a bottom that was made for spanking. His heart
leapt in time with his dick—here was tonight’s entertainment for
sure!

“That was very bold of you,” he said with a
smile.

She smiled back and sweetly lowered her
eyes. Nope, no chain or bulky leather collar around her neck. He
glanced down toward her hands, but couldn’t spot the flash of a
ring, either. “I’m Mike.”

“Karen,” she said, extending her hand. He
kept the smile in place, amused at the gesture, but shook her hand
firmly.

“Pleased to meet you, Karen, and I’m glad
you like the hat. Would you be looking for company by any
chance?”

Her smile broadened. “You read my mind!”

It was easy to read Karen’s mind. It was
even easier to get her entire life story from her, accomplished in
less than two hours of casual shopping. It was a simple tale—native
Californian, middle class, bright kid, college, steady job, old
boyfriend not into kinky sex, and a small local SM organization
where she volunteered her time as a secretary and the publisher of
a newsletter called The Flogger. She wrote sexy stories too, for a
local computer bulletin board. This was her vacation money—last
year, she had gone to Aruba for a week with the old boyfriend. This
year, she was having a good time with her kinky friends, hoping to
find a new boyfriend.

It was also absurdly easy to get her to bed.
Hell, it was easy to do everything with her—she was fun and cute
and direct and open—just the kind of girl Michael liked in and out
of the leather-set. And what’s more, she was kind of bold—not only
in her way of introducing herself to him, but in the way she
responded to his sex play.

Michael took her to the dungeon party that
night, after having her describe all the clothing she had brought
with her and telling her what to wear. He spent another few bucks
on a black lace thong in the dealer’s room, holding it up against
her body and chatting with the saleswoman behind the table as Karen
blushed and looked embarrassed. But she didn’t walk away, or
protest. And when he tucked the new purchase into the front of her
jeans—“to keep it warm“—she put her hands behind her back and
didn’t try to stop him from so publicly groping her.

It was a very promising beginning.

She looked sweet in the thong, her
high-heeled boots, a bra, and her little leather club vest with all
the pins on it. He wanted to put a collar on her, too. All slaves,
even brand new trainees, were collared the minute they entered
training or stepped into Geoff’s house. But even though he knew
that she wasn’t a trainee and wouldn’t know what the collar meant
to him... it would somehow be wrong.

Still, he couldn’t ignore the nagging
feeling that a collar would look natural on her. The ten minutes
they spent as she outlined the things she was not willing or
interested in doing hammered home a strange sense of near guilt.
There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing, he told himself. I’m
playing! I’m allowed to play! But he had to struggle to keep from
grabbing her by the hair and forcing her to her knees and telling
her what he was going to do and giving her a nice slap if she tried
to talk back to him. He just knew she’d love it.

But he was only there to play.

He taught her how to follow him, one step
behind on his left, and walked slowly around the converted
warehouse that was the playspace for Leather Forever. It had been
divided into rough sections with hung tarps and strategically
placed pieces of equipment like standing crosses and stocks and
spanking benches and cages. He avoided the curtained-off corner for
medical play and piercings—not only wasn’t she ready for anything
like that, but he had no idea what he would do once they got in.
No, he had everything he needed in his training kit.

When he sensed that she was getting bored,
he reached casually over to her and pulled her breasts free of the
bra, exposing her. Her face colored, but she didn’t object and he
turned away and kept walking, trying to hide his grin of
satisfaction. He hoped that someone would ask if they could touch
her—it would be great to be able to say “sure” and keep walking!
But no one did, although more than one man looked up and grinned as
they passed.

He watched a few scenes, controlling his
impatience to get his hands on her body. He needed to know how she
would behave. Once, during an especially hot girl-on-girl waxing
scene, he pulled Karen over to him and fondled her nipples. As the
wax piled up and the girl receiving it moaned and arched her back,
he pinched Karen’s nipples harder and harder, until her moans
rivaled the moans coming from the other girl. It was nice. He
watched as colored wax dribbled down the girl’s breasts and across
her full, round belly and thighs, and wished that she were
prettier. But then, he grinned and glanced at Karen. What did it
matter if the waxed lady wasn’t hot? He had a hot little babe of
his own. He clamped her tender nipples and dragged her through the
dungeon by the connecting chain, a slight smile remaining on his
face.

Finally, he found the place he’d been
looking for, a nice, sturdy X-shaped cross with chain attachments
for bondage. He had his own cuffs, of course, heavy duty leather
cuffs lined with sheepskin. He put them on her, checking them for
security, stretching her arms over her body until she stood on her
toes for him. She whimpered as he laid out his array of handsome
floggers—the big, black leather one, the long and skinny one of
narrow suede tresses, the braided deerskin in bright red. Before he
secured her to the cross, naked except for the cuffs and that
little thong, he removed the nipple clamps and made her thank
him.

When she did, her voice a whisper, he felt
his cock stiffen in the way it almost never did in these
situations. She’s worth it, he thought. She’s close to what we play
with every day! Maybe I can be a spotter after all! I picked the
best one here!

But the proof would be in the playing. He
teased her first, draping the tresses over her shoulders and down
her back, letting them slide down her hips and thighs. She moaned
and twisted her body to meet the gentle rushes of leather, even
wiggling her ass a little when he slapped it lightly with the
deerskin.

“Show me what a good girl you can be,” he
said, drawing it back. The first strike landed squarely on one
shoulder blade, and he loved the sound of it, snapping and sharp.
She gasped and her head flew back. “Oh, yes!” she cried out, and he
grinned. Geoff believed that slaves should be as verbal as
possible.

It was easy to fall into a natural rhythm
beating her—and he did for a while. He covered her back until it
was pink, and then switched to the narrower whip to actually make
some stripes. She didn’t disappoint him—in fact, she seemed to like
this even better. She writhed and threw herself back into the
falling tresses, her body twisting to catch them, as if she were
eager to be striped. When he started to really sweat, he stopped
long enough to take off his shirt and put just his vest back on.
The smooth leather felt good against his naked back. He came up
behind her and pressed his body into hers, feeling the warmth of
her skin against his chest and stomach. His erection pressed into
her ass, and she moaned and pushed back.

“Oh, God, sir, please, please, yes, touch
me, kiss me, hold me, please!” she panted. He leaned around her,
covering her body with his, wrapping his hands around her breasts
as she ground her ass against him. She was ready for it, even if
her pre-play negotiation said that she would want to be asked
before he fucked her. Oh, she was more than ready, he thought,
biting her neck as he rubbed himself against her even harder. I bet
you regret thinking that you might say no to anything, he thought
with savage amusement.

Time to make her regret it even more! He
pulled out the nipple clamps again and re-attached them. She
groaned and whimpered, but didn’t try to stop him. Then he picked
up his heaviest whip and started really working her over.