She’d accepted everything without comment, just nodding. Then she took the magazine and smiled as she examined the mailing label. Stuart only had to visit three old-fashioned barbershops before he found the exact issue, and the owner laughed when Stuart offered to pay for it.
“Give me your complete schedule for the next three months,” she said, tossing the magazine back to him. “You’re busy, but you’re going to make sure you are never late or looking sloppy when I tell you to show up. Stop going to your leather club. From now on, it’s Marketplace or nothing. You call me ma’am, Trainer, or Marcy and you’ll eventually figure out when one is better than the other. And since you’re one of those computer nerds, can you get mine to stop crashing every other fucking day? That’ll be your first job.”
And that had been it. Before long, he was running her errands, learning her preferences, and slowly starting to understand how much work he had ahead of him. She tried not to have more than two slaves in training at the same time, but even with one, he discovered just how complicated and personalized training had to be. When three slaves were in residence—well, three wannabe slaves at any rate—he averaged four hours of sleep a night and drilled until he was positive he could step in and get himself auctioned off with no problem.
He immediately understood the need for his learning to serve before teaching others—he’d learned programming languages with less of a lifespan of usefulness than the body language of subservience. And as for role-playing... well, he’d had a life of doing that, hadn’t he?
“You really don’t have an issue with playing my slave,” Marcy had said once to him, blunt as always, her eyes sharp as they examined him. She was a tall woman, taller than he was and athletically stocky; just enough out of his preferences in terms of body to keep his eyes on hers most of the time. “That’s rare. A lot of trainers have way too much invested in personal ego to bend, even as students. Tell me why you’re so accepting.”
“It’s just temporary,” Stuart said, smiling. “It’s not who I am, but I wasn’t a girl, either, and I found a way to pretend that when I had to.”
Marcy nodded. “OK, fair enough. But what else?”
He had squirmed a little then, knowing his answer was going to sound like the worst kind of suck-up. “Well... I think you’re a great trainer. And I wanna be a great trainer. If this is how to do it? I trust you. A few hours on my knees or doing shit work won’t kill me.”
She smiled, slight wrinkles forming at the sides of her dark eyes. “Good. Flexibility and trust are more important than ego, any day. And it’s hard enough to keep up with you without having to wrestle with some bullshit you-can’t-do-this-to-me-I’m-a-master whining.”
No, he wasn’t a whiner. At least not too much and not out loud. Even so, she’d realized he was missing something when he cut ties to much of his non-Marketplace social circles. Once she accepted him as her full-time apprentice, he quit his lucrative job and walked away from anything resembling free time, devoting himself to finishing his master’s degree and becoming a slave trainer and seeing to his health. That meant he cut out the time spent at bars and clubs and sex and play parties (looking for chicks who could get into men like him) and the one peer/support group meeting he went to by choice.
He didn’t realize that Marcy noticed his complete lack of a social life and peer groups; or, if he’d given it any thought, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that she cared. Seeing that he went to a loosely defined support group or darts night at The Manacle was not her job as long as he took care of his responsibilities. But one day she tossed him an envelope with a return address from New York. “Ken Mandarin says this guy could be helpful to you. Treat him with respect; he’s an ace trainer. If you don’t want to chat him up, that’s your choice, but I’d recommend it.”
It was a letter from Chris Parker, introducing himself and offering to correspond with him over issues around identity, transitioning, and making his way in the Marketplace world. And slowly his life somehow became more complete, leading up to this weekend where he could finally meet Parker, look into those wise, dark-tobacco eyes, and thank him.
And then get kicked by the man and used like some sort of kinky adult toy in a sex show with Parker’s own apprentice, the beautiful Michael, and Ken Mandarin’s matched set of slaves as well!
Not my thing, but man, it was hot
, Stuart reflected. His cock had no conscience—no matter how much Stuart wanted girls, lusted after girls, mooned over them, and beat off thinking about them, with the right stimulation, his cock would come for almost anybody! As it had when Michael sucked him off. Embarrassing, sometimes, to be a guy.
And limiting! Everyone knew the ideal trainer was a bisexual switch; someone who could take on all comers, men, women, transfolk, tops, bottoms, you-name-it. That way they could see what was attractive—and what was lacking—in anyone. They could rate the service of any mouth, any hole, any skill set. They would serve their own trainers with devotion and loyalty and gratitude, then turn around and terrorize their own trainees or clients with equal glee.
“Not that I am one of those lucky people,” Marcy admitted to him at one point. “Tried to be, though. Sadly, I just wasn’t built for bottoming or for the ladies, however diverting the experience. OK, I’ll be frank, sometimes obeying my trainer was hell on wheels, I hated it, and gritted my teeth so hard I needed caps by the time he finally said I was done.” She showed him her perfect dental work with a laugh. “But here’s the truth. It worked. God-damn if I don’t feel like I know my shit better now because of how I learned back then. Owners lie. Slaves lie. Spotters? Shit, spotters live with so much lying, I swear they probably couldn’t give you a weather report in a hurricane. But trainers can’t lie. Especially not to themselves.”
Well, Stuart had his own truths as well. One, he was a man, no matter how anyone else cared to define it, and two, he was straight to the core, no matter what a slut his cock might be in the moment. As for switching in power—well, he was a little more flexible there, especially if the person holding the whip was a curvy girl in tall boots and a push-up bra. No, his passion was for training, period. And if Marcy could find him a trainer like Mr. Parker...
OK
, he thought, looking up at the mirror again.
Honestly, dude. You want him to train you so bad you’d go queer for him.
Gah! That was a distraction. He forced that image from his mind, that sexy, sexy image of kneeling at the man’s feet, waiting for some clue about how he’d be used. Shit, just handing him a glass of oak-and-peat-scented scotch had spun his head like a top. Feeling the strength of his body bracing him, as Michael worked on his dick, the sound of his slightly hoarse voice in his ear, the heat of his breath, wafting smoke down the back of his neck and along his collarbone, directing the action...
Stuart snapped a lock on that memory, hard, and adjusted his package, feeling the arousal way too much for comfort and concentration. “Marcy,” he whispered out loud. “What does Marcy like?”
Big, hairy, strong, well-hung, and capable of fucking would be a good start. Didn’t she say she liked his friend Arcane that way? Arcane was a good six-three or -four and climbed rocks and lifted weights—the guy was huge, all over. Had he seen any slaves looking like that? Stuart ran through his neat, cataloged memory for anything else she ever said she admired in the male form. She liked them circumcised... she liked body modifications and piercings and scars... oh, yes, she didn’t like facial hair! She always teased him about his own goatee; hell, she even teased Mr. Parker about his. Good, good.
He went back to his room, making mental lists and plans as he pondered what to wear on his hunt, and whether he’d get to actually meet Master Trainer Walther Kurgan.
* * * *
Walther hated bondage. No, that was not accurate. Bondage certainly served its purpose, immobilizing a strong body for those times when personal discipline wouldn’t keep even the best of slaves still. Also, there were types of bondage that were appropriate in certain settings; heavy steel or iron manacles for prisons and the dungeons so loved by fetishists.
But to spend valuable time fussing over bondage just irritated him. Which was why he had his under-trainer and factotum Markus Schulze organize all three centerpieces of the party, and one in particular—an arrangement of three slave bodies in suspension. Markus had little use for such elaborate rope games himself, but he was obedient, exacting, and not a little proud of how well he managed such duties for his Master Trainer.
The effect was pretty. The two women were suspended to either side of the man. He was knotted up in a package that bundled his slender body in multicolored webbing, face up, his arms behind his head and one knee bent up while the other was sticking straight out from his body, ropes like the cables on a suspension bridge supporting it. He looked almost as though he was relaxing in a hammock on a summer’s day. His female companions were also horizontal, both of them face down, each of them in a different position, limbs caught up or stretched out by some complicated bondage code, no doubt. The actual rigger was the slave he’d seen at the breakfast meeting, but Markus was making damn sure that each of the slaves was perfectly available for sexual use.
There would be none of that “don’t touch the art” nonsense at one of Walther’s parties. Every slave, from the decorative ones locked in useful postures to those serving the drinks and canapés or delivering lubricants, oils, and sex toys—every slave at a Kurgan soirée was available for use, by anyone. His party, his rules, of course. It made it somewhat of a challenge to arrange the required number of slaves, as many owners and trainers did issue forth strange restrictions on their availability. But it also made serving at these parties a mark of distinction. “Doing Kurgan” had become a catch phrase that did not refer to actually serving him directly, but surviving one of his orgies.
And that was for the best. He would rather have notoriety for being a demanding Master Trainer than an indiscriminate stallion, rutting his way to anything that smelled like a mare. Besides the sheer energy required for such a reputation, he was limited in his desire for the fillies rather than the colts. Better they should aspire to serve at one of his parties than dream of servicing him personally.
Speaking of horses, three of the performing horse-slaves were present, in a little ring of their own, complete with a tiny one-person gig, an assortment of lunge leads and whips, and a cunning breeding box. Their harnesses and reins smelled of freshly cleaned leather, their bodies already slightly glowing with excited sweat. The horse fetishists would like that. Walther had wanted some of the dogs, too, but apparently they had far too many restrictions on their use. (Why one would care how a dog was fucked seemed odd; surely dogs were lower in rank than human slaves?)
Luckily, Markus had instead arranged for three Japanese slavegirls who were supposedly trained in some form of erotic acrobatics. They would perform on a stage surrounded by low, well bolstered futons, strewn with little pillows and thick silk comforters, a veritable nest of soft surfaces the slaves could be thrown onto with ease.
So, horses for romping, a bondage sculpture to admire and fuck while standing, and girls to throw to the floor. Ach. As usual, there was a shortage of males. He was about to call Markus over when four naked men filed into the room leashed together by their collars; ah, an assortment! One pale and shaved, one dark and muscular, a tall red-haired brute with a ring in his nose, and a small Asian man decorated with tattoos. Markus waved them over, and Walther smiled, nodding. Trust Markus to gather the masculine entertainment.
Years before, Walther had asked him, bluntly, “Why do you stay? Is it because you love me?”
Markus had looked surprised, edging his glasses down his nose with a slight smile. “Oh, I do, sir,” he said simply. “But not in that way. I stay because you need me.”
And because he knew the second was true, Walther had accepted the first. Over time, Markus had proved himself quite happy with his sex and love partners outside the training house and never gave off that intense passion of unrequited adoration so common in under-trainers. Neither did he evidence the slightest interest in starting a house of his own, even though he was a much sought after trainer.
But in addition to his service as a trainer and as his assistant, Markus was necessary to test the male slaves. Because no matter how he tried, Walther just did not have the right feelings to judge the sexual skills of men.
It was infuriating! What was worse, it was embarrassing. Not that he was ashamed to be heterosexual—who could be ashamed of being normal? But working as he did, in the hyper-masculine world of military recruits, those who had wished to serve but could not, and those who had worn a uniform in some manner—the majority of his clients were men. Things were changing—he had a few female slaves brought in from all over the world now, although mostly from NATO countries. Still, when his spotters hunted, they most often brought in males. Proud, strong, loyal, tough, aggressive, romantic males, who needed to be pounded down to be raised up. Men who hungered for regimentation and discipline, for a structured life and orders and consequences.
Roughly one quarter of them were inclined toward other men, or at least open to that potential. Of the rest, some were so limited as to become useful slaves only in service to women, or only in non-sexual roles. Those, he farmed out to past trainees, or to other trainers who did not mind this restriction. The remainders were men who needed to learn to pleasure other men—and Walther, the great Trainer of Trainers, was incapable of even closing his eyes and, as the old British Queen had suggested, thinking of Germany.
He needed Markus for that, and his various trainees as they passed in and out of his house.
His own trainer, Karl Wein, had not been interested in Walther’s preferences. When the young would-be trainer sneered at a male slave being enthusiastically buggered at Wein’s training house in Hamburg, Wein had simply grabbed him, hit him twice in the solar plexus, and then slammed him up against a wall.