Free The Trainer by Laura Antoniou

blushes touched her cheeks. He
wondered if she had laughed at his predicament. It made him want to
slap her just out of principle. And make her suck him again, this
time to completion, and to hell with Parker’s opinion on whether
she’d be used like that! Another trainer, one of the European ones,
had once written: “A slave having witnessed the humiliation of a
master is a tarnished servant and must be reminded of their place
before they can regain any luster.”
    Michael was positive that Anderson did not
agree with that assessment, but he certainly did. At least he did
now. Topping Joan in a lengthy scene, with nipple clamps and whips
and paddles and tight bondage would be just the right thing. Tie
those big tits up tight, make her wince with pain, and get all red
from the shame of having them stuck out for everyone to see and
fondle. He’d work her hard, make her cry and beg his forgiveness,
beg to suck him or anything else he wanted. If he were back in
California, he’d make a fucking example of her. Get another trainer
to help, maybe. Or, two. Fill all three holes, how would you like
that for sexual use, huh? Then he’d feel better. And there’d be a
little less doubt that she respected him, too.
    These thoughts did not console him long. In
fact, he found that dwelling on the matter made him feel even more
frustrated, and at one point, he thought, oh, what’s the use? I
need to live under these new rules. I have to learn what the hell
it is about this style that makes it so special. I can always go
back to the things that worked at Geoff’s later on. When I have my
own place, maybe, or when I join some more relaxed house
somewhere.
    One day at chores became two, and then
three. In fact, the third day was the most interesting; he got his
first exposure to the New York City Subway system, taking the train
into Manhattan to pick up some CDs Anderson had ordered from Tower
Records. Again, Vicente gave him the errand, and this time advised
him to take as long as he liked doing it. “Enjoy yourself,” he said
cheerfully. “Go and look in the stores.” His accent continued to be
a mystery—it seemed faintly Hispanic, but nothing like the Mexican
rhythms Michael had known back in LA. Mike wanted to ask about it,
but never felt that the time was right to ask. Besides, you never
knew how sensitive people were going to be about an innocent
question.
    But meanwhile, he was being sent off to shop
like some nitwit valley girl. Well, he did need some new shirts
anyway—and maybe a few ties. Spending most of the day in Soho and
the East Village lightened his mood for a while, but as he studied
the subway map to find his way back to Brooklyn during the rush
hour, he began to feel a nervousness in the pit of his stomach that
was vaguely nauseating.
    I’m not being given a chance, he complained
inwardly, steeling himself to the rocking motion of the train and
idly looking at the skyline. How can I do anything right if she
won’t let me do anything at all? I have to ask her what’s wrong,
that’s all, and insist that I be given a proper opportunity to
prove myself.
    Resolved to do that, he sprang up the steps
to the house with an energy he hadn’t felt since the first day he
arrived. He deposited the CDs with Vicente and ran upstairs to
change for dinner. He even showered first, shaving and combing his
hair before slipping into one of his crisp new shirts. It was
powder blue with a spread collar, and he had gotten a brightly
colored, stylish tie. Yes, very sharp. He hummed as he came down
the stairs, and nearly ran into Anderson as she was coming out of
her office.
    “Good evening, Mike,” she said, shifting a
sheaf of papers in her arms. “How nice you look.”
    He beamed. “Thanks, Trainer. Listen, could
we talk for a moment before dinner?”
    She nodded and pushed the office door open
again. He held it for her and then followed her in. “I got your
music today,” he said.
    “Thank you. And yet, why don’t I